Harry Potter 1. 0

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There's a monster at the end of this story.

It's the blank page where the story ends and leaves you alone with yourself and your thoughts.

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_**A/N: **This is by far the darkest Tom I've ever written and anyone with a sensitive spot or certain trigger points should stay away from this fic. It contains a lot of blood and torment and explicit descriptions of Tom's torture techniques and murders, as well as some serious mindfucks._

_The prologue as well as the first two chapters are finally revised, beta-ed and had a couple of changes/additions._


	2. I

_**Rating: **M_

_**Warnings/Tags: **Psychological anguish / Torture / Murder / Explicit Murder / Beastial ways of killing someone / Blood and Gore / Modern AU / Serial!killer AU / Psychopathology &amp; Sociopathy_

_**Summary:** A new killer causes a worldwide media sensation by committing crimes so depraved that they've created a global panic. It appears that he chooses his victims at random, but they're always accompanied by a riddle that leads to the next one. Only Special Agent and Consultant Hermione Granger can stop the killercif she can solve his most complex and terrifying puzzle. Will she see through his game before her time runs out? Or will she lose herself in his maze of terror?_

_**A/N:** This is by far the darkest Tom I've ever written and **anyone with a sensitive spot or certain trigger points should stay away from this fic.** It contains a lot of blood and torment and explicit descriptions of Tom's torture techniques and murders, as well as some serious mindfucks. _

_I also tried another writing method with this one, it's a far more narrative style and not as cropped or lyrical as the one I'm using in One-Shots and drabbles. I hope people will still like it. I'd love to hear your opinions because I'll try to improve and writers can just progress if their readers tell them what they liked and what they could do better._

_A big special thank you to my lovely beta ozzymandius who really improved this story with her unique skill to wield words like a blade. Without her, the story wouldn't be what it is._

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**ooo**

**In order for the light to shine so brightly, the darkness must be present.**

**Francis Bacon**

**ooo**

_I'm not playing a major part in this story, not yet._

_At least, not in the first chapter. _

_I'm mentioned briefly, although it's just a poor reflection of my true potential. _

_It's not until the third chapter that I'm truly making an appearance. _

_The Prologue, however, belongs to me all alone._

**ooo**

Remus Lupin woke up, his daze gradually disappearing, as his red-rimmed eyes caught blurred glimpses of his environment.

After a second his mind registered that he was in his living room.

Infinite relief flooded through his veins, like an injection of something pure and nice, and for the flicker of a moment he was persuaded that everything that had happened before had been a mere nightmare.

Unfortunately it wasn't.

His eyes fell on the petite frame of his wife and his six-year-old son, both sitting on two dining chairs, back-to-back while their shock-dilated eyes looked at him with a mixture of panic and despair; both were pinioned and their mouths closed with adhesive tape. Tonks' hair was sticking to her front in thick, sweaty clumps and her cheeks were soaked with salty tears. Clots of blood were already crusting on a deep gash that adorned her forehead.

"Dora!" Remus tried to crawl towards her, but he noticed his own hands were constrained behind his back. He tried to rear up but it was a lost cause.

Raising his face once more to look at his wife, he saw the way her light brown hair brushed her face, which was twisted from the terror written all over it. She was pallid, almost ashen, while there was no trace of rosiness on her skin, that he loved so much, anymore. Little Edward looked much the same. His little body shook from the effort of screaming against the tape and it shattered Remus' heart into a million pieces to see his family helpless and frightened. He was trembling from blind rage that boiled under his surface, but Tonks captured his attention and her eyes insinuated that he take a look towards the right.

Remus followed her glance hastily.

There was another man in the room.

He was occupying Remus' favorite armchair, an old memento that had been kept in the family for years. Long legs, dressed in an inflated looking suit, were crossed right before Remus' eyes. Italian leather graced his feet that looked as frightfully expensive as the equally black leather that covered his perfect long fingers, which were resting on the armrests. Surprisingly, the face of the intruder wasn't covered or masked at all. It was beautiful for a man, even Remus couldn't deny that, with long, thick eyelashes and a perfect taper haircut that made his hair look just the right amount of messy to provide him with a certain kind of flair. His cheekbones were high, sharp and well-defined. The facial features were overall young but masculine, with full lips gracing his mouth. The only thing that showed any indication of the monster living within his veins were the piercing, icy eyes that held no trace of any emotion.

A cruel smirk curled his lips, that appeared almost plastered on the stranger's face, as he rose from the armchair and approached Remus in a light-footed manner.

"I'm glad you decided to join the party, dear Remus," the man drawled, his voice like thick fluent honey in Remus' mind. He grabbed the rope that bound Remus' wrists together and yanked him into a kneeling position. The man hunkered down beside him and leant in till he was right next to Remus' ear; one hand on the ropes, one on Remus' nape.

"Shall we start?"

The stranger gripped the tape on Remus' lips and a second later, he yanked it violently off. There was a searing pain and the skin around Remus' mouth felt like raw meat, especially in the places his moustache had been. Remus clenched his teeth and his muscles churned in wrath, but no sound escaped his lips. He didn't want to tempt the psychopath or fire up his perverted fantasies. Primarily, Dora and Edward should survive, that's all he prayed for.

"What do you think about Death, Remus? Do you think our lives will flash before our eyes when we die? That we'll witness our mundane existence once again? Do you believe the story with the light at the end of the tunnel? Do you think your family will go to heaven once I've killed them?"

The stranger's voice sounded light, nearly amused and it turned Remus' stomach. He could taste bile on his tongue and with every breath his nasal wings flared. Once more he tried to wrench at the ropes on his wrists but failed.

Remus felt helpless. He couldn't find an exit path, no prospect of salvation. They lived near an endless, jungled forest, isolated from the next village, so nobody would hear their screams. His last hope was that somebody would miss them - Sirius would most likely look for him. If he didn't show up for work without a word, Sirius would appear sooner or later at their door and ask about his well-being. But how long would that take? How much time had already passed?

His eyes followed the man across the room and observed how he stepped around the armchair, then bowed down to retrieve a big garden tube affixed to an iron barrel. He took both in his hands and returned to stand right beside Remus, setting the barrel aside.

Remus finally found the strength to ask, voice a mere whisper, "Why do you do this?"

The stranger's eyes narrowed into slits and he grunted, his former amusement lost in the act: _"Why_? The _why_ doesn't matter!" His voice was pure venom and Remus felt the biting flavour of the man's acrimony in his throat.

"Do you know about the Ten-to-Ninety rule? It says that a life exists through ten percent of the actions that happen to us, and ninety percent through our reactions to them. That is of vital importance, my dear Remus. Why I'm doing this, is insignificant."

The voice was piercing and as disparate as no other sound Remus had ever heard - it chilled him to the bone. Nothing mirrored in the lifeless grey eyes of the stranger. All Remus saw was a dead end, a hollow hole that reminded him of the faint mist left after a supernova, and it terrified him to death.

Remus was used to perversion, and killers in general. You couldn't be an MI6 associate in London without getting your hands deep into the puddle of dirt and blood. But he had never met a psychopath that could remotely compare to the ghastliness radiating from the man right before him.

A dangerous, manic glint shimmered in the stranger's grey eyes when he stepped beside Remus again and pressed his fingertips into the flesh of his cheeks, right in the spot under his eye sockets. He pressed hard, until water gathered in Remus' eyes.

"Everyone's always whining, but no one really knows the meaning of the word **_pain_**."

The pressure on Remus' cheek increased, and the fingers started to push the flesh apart, tearing at it in the process.

"Stop your useless questions, Remus, and be aware, once I've lost interest in this, I'll kill you all."

His voice was incisive at first, then calm, nearly loving. He slapped his cheeks once. Then finally, he released the face from his adamant grasp.

Remus needed to blink several times, until the blaze in his eyes vanished again. His sight was watery, vision blurred in the process, and he needed a minute until the stranger, who had dragged the armchair right before Remus' body, came back into his view. The man sat down and took the garden tube in his hand again, using it as a pointer to emphasize the words that drawled out of his fine lips.

"I want to let you in on a little secret Remus, just between you and me."

There was a pause in which the stranger clacked his tongue against his palate, a sound that echoed frothily in the tense air.

"You're part of a game. A **_riddle_** you could say."

The man grinned as if he had said something terribly amusing, like a pun Remus hadn't caught.

"Let me explain the rules to you. As you may have noticed by now, you're the only one without a tape on your mouth. The reason for this is simple. I'll ask you a single question, namely who will die tonight. Two of you will die, I don't care who. Now, there are certain possibilities as to how this can end, so lets think about it."

The hole of the garden hose was pointed right at Remus' face, and he was momentarily distracted by the way the hollow tube bounced before his eyes. But then the man spoke again and he looked up, pushing the disturbing feeling aside.

"Possibility one. I kill you first and your son dies next - basically save your wife."

There was a certain frost biting at his words and Remus didn't doubt him for one second. He swallowed hard. The stranger seemed to take his silent fear as a sign of comprehension, because he continued in the same voice.

"Possibility two. I kill your wife and your son. I cut the rope and you'll be free to go. I think your freedom would leave a bitter taste in your mouth, but I won't judge you if that'll be your decision."

There was another pause, as if the man was waiting for his words to have an impact on Remus. Then, once more, he proceeded.

"Possibility three. I kill your wife, after I kill you but your son stays alive. I'll call the police and they can pick him up right here. He may have some emotional and psychological problems, but he's free to live his pathetic unimportant life as long as God grants him."

The man made a dismissive gesture with the tube, but Remus saw the glint of something perfidious in his eyes.

"Now that's the fun part. You see, Remus, this would be the ideal outcome for both of us. I need you to do something for me. I'll kill your wife, but I'll let you live just a tad longer. Because I need you to deliver, hm…let's call it a _gift_."

His hand groped at the other side of the armchair, which was hidden from Remus' sight and revealed a box. It was not bigger than a paperback, but carefully wrapped in brown paper - even the sides were neatly folded and glued together like a Christmas gift. The stranger set the box back aside the armchair and dedicated his full attention back to Remus once again.

"Now that you know the rules and possibilities, I want to make it absolutely clear, that under no circumstances will two members of your family get out of this alive. If you trespass upon my rules or if you refuse to play, I'll make you watch as I skin both of your loved ones - first your wife and then your son. I'll take my time. They'll beg me to kill them. They'll beg you to kill them and you'll wish you had done it yourself to spare them the agony I'll let them feel. Do you understand?"

Remus cringed under the ferocious hiss, but nodded, defeated, nevertheless. The stranger leaned back into the comfy embrace of the luxurious armchair, mimicking his earlier appearance, as he swung his leg right over his knee.

"Marvelous. Shall we begin then?"

Remus shifted his gaze from the stranger to his wife, and he knew that they both followed the same train of thought. If just one of them could survive, it had to be Teddy. Doras eyes spoke volumes and whole prayers, and Remus understood.

_I love you. I do understand. It's okay. _

The love of his life closed her eyes and lowered her head.

Remus opened his mouth but no sound came out. He couldn't bring himself to speak the words, the name, and he racked his brain, tried to find a solution so all of them could live.

But there was none.

"I remember, hazily, I already told you, that my patience wears thin," urged the stranger, as his usual gorgeous face transformed into a grotesque mask, like some animal waiting to snatch its prey.

Remus didn't have a choice.

He opened his mouth again and spoke hesitantly, in a broken voice, merely above a whisper: "Dora will die first. And afterwards - afterwards I'll do whatever you want me to do."

At first, the stranger remained silent, and the nearby ticking of an old grandfather clock got louder and louder with every passing second. But then he started to laugh, vacant and blaring, a noise that shuddered Remus' bones right to the core. The man rose from the chair in a single elegant move and took the iron barrel in one hand, placing it carefully right before Tonks feet, which were tied to both sides of the chair. The barrel was small but contained at least 5 or 6 litres. _'Of what?',_ was the obvious question, and Remus could feel the upcoming terror in his gut, the way his entrails were churning.

The stranger took the tube in one hand and picked a knife out of his pocket. He pushed it gently against Tonks' cheek and for a horrid second Remus thought he'd carve her face.

What followed was even worse.

The knife dipped into the tape on Tonks' mouth with surgical precision, right between the space where her lips met, cutting a small hole just wide enough to fit the tube inside. The man pushed the tube through the hole and down until Tonks started to gag, then he pulled it back a few millimetres and took the tape-roll from the nearby table to affix his device, firm and solid, so that the tube wouldn't slip free.

"Say goodbye to your darling wife, Remus. It'll be the last time that you see her beautiful face in a while."

Panic was written all over Doras' face and mirrored in Remus' as well. Edward was tearing at his shackles, eyes blown wide, which Remus urged him to close. The stranger bent over and loosened the valve on the barrel and the tube started to fill with something because Remus could see how it swelled slightly under the liquid that meandered through its canal. By the time the liquid reached Doras' mouth and throat, Remus knew that this would end in a beastiality he had never witnessed before.

Inside, Tonks was full of torrid flames, and she buckled desperately, her eyes a plead. She screamed against tape and tube, choked on spit and everything that gathered in her lungs, and her nose flowed rapidly. Tonks' eyes popped out, red-swollen, and they rolled uncontrollably until the irises stuck out. The skin on her throat and neckline was protuberant, melted like wax under her mute shrieking, and Remus saw how her fingernails scratched the wooden chair until blood burst out of their tips. Her face inflated, violet and veiny, and the man laughed right beside Remus' ear, contemptuous, a lunatic.

He pulled the plug on the barrel and Remus started to scream, tried to struggle against the rope on his wrists to reach her, but everything was completely in vain. His voice failed and his gullet and throat felt raw. Despair filled his bones and he couldn't look at Dora any longer, so he squeezed his eyes shut and tears spilled down his tensed red face.

However, the stranger didn't grant him any rest. Footsteps on the floor, and then slender fingers dug into the flesh of his cheeks and eyelids, ripping them painfully apart so his eyes were at the mercy of the savagery right before him. He tried to press them shut again but the man's grasp was relentless.

Tonks' body flapped and collapsed into the chair. The skin on her stomach bulged, until it became fat and pink like a sausage. It tore, and the flesh clung in raw shreds to her organs, spilling oil, blood and scorched entrails on the wood.

"Look at it Remus," the man breathed against his hair, his expensive aftershave a biting contrast to the outrageous smell of burnt flesh and hot oil. "Look at the pile of molten meat. Perhaps she's still living. Do you think she's dreaming of heaven right now?"

Remus tasted vomit in his mouth and the man released him a second later, so he could throw up right before his knees. He was still coughing when the stranger took his place on the armchair again, completely ignorant of the barbarous cruelty to his right. In fact, he looked kind of smug. Remus threw up once more.

The nerves of Dora's corpse still let the remains of her dead body tremble, and Remus prayed to God that she was dead the minute the oil hit her stomach. Tears shook Remus and he sobbed Dora's name until the sound died and his lips shaped desperately the syllables over and over again. But no noise escaped them anymore.

"Let's move on to the second part of our little game."

Amusement laced his voice as the stranger took the packet back into his hands and started to tap his fingers in a melodic rhythm on the cover. The perversion radiating from this creature was utterly terrifying and it sent frosty shivers down Remus spine, like spider-esque fingers that crept over his skin.

"Like I told you before, I need you to deliver this little package. It's just a trifle, nothing material."

He made a derogatory hand gesture and continued, completely unaware of Remus' distress and loss.

"It's a bomb, my dear Remus, and I want you to take it to the MI6 headquarters. You see, there are a lot of people I owe something and wouldn't it be great to pay back my debts all at once?" The man smirked and tilted his head slightly to ask him."Will you do this for me?"

Remus' body uncontrollably convulsed, but his sobs had already died on his lips. His eyes darted to Teddy, but the boy was unconscious on the chair. The terror and the brutish stench had pushed him over his limits.

"Do I have to remind you," the stranger started again, but the former tranquillity vanished with the first syllable. His tone was piercing, the face cruelly distorted while he spat at Remus, nearly a hiss that reminded him of snakes, "that if you're not following my orders**,** your son will die next? There's enough hot oil left in this barrel to melt him down to a puddle of his own innards. And I'll make you watch. And afterwards, I'll take the knife and kill you. Your death will neither be fast, nor easy, but as painful, that you can't imagine it in the slightest. You'll beg for my mercy and that's when I'll force feed the meat of your family to you."

The grey in the stranger's eyes was replaced by a dangerous shimmer, and each word echoed through Remus' hollow body. A hand yanked brutally at his hair and he couldn't prevent the reflex squeal from leaving his lips.

"I'll ask you one last time, Remus, will you do this for me?!"

Remus tried to throw the words around in his mouth, but nothing escaped. So he nodded to show his acquiescence. The man's nostrils inflated from the deep breath he took, then he dropped Remus' face once more and stepped over to Edward. Gently, his fingers threaded through the thick, hazelnut-coloured strands that reminded Remus so much of his mother's. The eyes of the man remained vitreous, without any emotion when he spoke to Remus again.

"Rest assured that it'd break my heart to hurt little Edward here. Don't get me wrong, I love children, I really do - preferably when they're screaming in agony. But I'll spare him, like I promised. All you have to do is to deliver the package."

"A-anything," Remus finally stammered, between sobs and blind panic. He added desperately, as if the words would give him strength when spoken out loud, "I'll do anything, b-but please spare him, please."

The leather-coated fingers froze in their movements. The man looked up, clearly self-satisfied. He gave Remus an approving nod, and his voice was a sneer when he said, "Good."

A second later the man was at Remus' side, hoisting him up to his feet with a brutal tug on the ropes, steadying him with one hand on the shoulder, the other, severe, on the cord and his shackled hands. He could feel the cold metal of a blade between his fingers, a ripping sound and then his hands fell to his sides, slack. Marks from the rope were still burned into his flesh, but he couldn't rub at them to disperse the numbness spreading in his wrists and fingers. A shove in his back made him stumble over his own feet, but he found his balance and resisted falling down. The packet was pushed into his hands and Remus took it without hesitation, clutching it desperately with his fingers as if it would fall and break.

Another shove brought him close to the door, and Remus risked a last glance at his son, who still sat unconscious on the chair. His voice broke again and he had to repeat the words twice until they were finally audible enough in the sticky room.

"You promise that he'll survive when I do this?"

The man bared his teeth, chuckled as if it was the most amusing thing Remus could have said in such a situation, and for a moment Remus noticed how young his face was, no more than thirty he'd guess. Almost amicable, as if they were life-long friends, the stranger tapped his hand on Remus' shoulder and pushed him towards the door. Voice promising and entrancing, like sweet, succulent honey once more, he said, "My dear Remus, do I look like someone who doesn't keep his promises?"

Tears gathered in Remus eyes but he hastily blinked them away, and nodded. "I'll deliver your packet."

Remus turned, and stumbled out of the house without another look back.

The stranger remained in the empty entrance for another minute. His ears were trained onto the distant engine of Remus Lupin's car that drove away. There was no need to follow Lupin, he knew exactly what was going to happen at the MI6 headquarters once he'd arrive. The sensors he applied on the outdoor walls some hours ago would start the timer on the bomb via satellite. Two minutes later, it would blow the whole building, leaving nothing behind but ashes and dust.

An important note, carefully packed into a fireproof bag, would also be found, though not until the forensics crawled out of their caves to investigate the crime scene.

The stranger turned around, his footsteps resonating on the wooden floor, as he approached little Edward again. His leather-covered fingers ran once more through the boy's brown hair, the other hand curled around the childish chin and cheeks.

Edwards eyelids fluttered and a moment later the boy opened his eyes, an unusual shade of bright sky-blue with little flecks of yellow, reflections from the ceiling lights. He blinked, disorientated, but when he caught sight of the stranger, the horror returned to the boy's eyes.

Remus Lupin wouldn't say a word. He wouldn't respond to direct questioning. He'd be semi-coherent, at best. He wouldn't dare to betray him._ No one ever did._

For a second a cruel smile ghosted on the stranger's lips. Then he twisted his hands to opposing sides, snapping the boy's neck in a fluent motion. He felt the boy's neck bones split, straight through his leather gloves, as well as the ripping of the still soft, infantile muscles. The blood-curdling cracks from the boy's now-broken spine didn't bother the man at all.

Neither did the empty eyes of the boy which held no life anymore.

**ooo**

_Perhaps you read this brief introduction and think you already know me._

_I can assure you, you don't._

_I'm a shadow behind closed doors, the grim reaper your parents warned you of._

_I can do things you can't even begin to imagine. _

_I possess powers, skills and abilities beyond the human ken. _

_You'll be challenged and you can see it as a game or a never_-_ending struggle._

_Soon enough you'll ask yourself: What's the point of this?_

_What's the point of a game with so much violence, so much bloodshed and cruelty?_

_I can't explain my motives, not immediately from the start. _

_Not even the main characters know that they've entered my maze of terror. _

_But they'll learn. _

_Pain and agony will lead them on their path through my endless aisles._

_And _I_'ll lead you through the same. _

_'Will it be worth it?' some may ask._

_'Not for everyone' _I_'ll answer. _

**_Will you step inside my labyrinth?_**


	3. II

_**A/N:** I think I should include some explanations for shortcuts which are used and will be used more often now:_

_SIS - Secret Intelligence Service, also called the MI6_

_TOAS - Technical Operations, Analysis and Surveillance, a branch in the MI5_

_SIL - Safety Integrity Level, you need a certain level to have access on some areas or reports_

_SID - Scientific Investigation Service, short: Forensics_

_Hermione's thoughts and observations are usually in italics._

_Also, I want to thank every reviewer, story favorite or story follower for supporting Murderer's Maze, i really appreciate it!_

_Special thanks to my lovely beta ozzymandius again who does her best to free the story from my mistakes._

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**ooo**

**_Who in his mind has not probed the dark water? _**

**_John Steinbeck, East from Eden_**

**ooo**

_Let's do some maths today, shall we?_

_The world mortality rate totals approximately 500,000 per day, and no one can say exactly how many people die due to criminal acts. This makes 348 deaths a minute, 5.7 deaths a second. According to recent studies, at least every tenth person dies at the hands of a murderer. Half of these killings consist of single naive opportunists, mostly with trivial motives and feelings like revenge, passion, religion or hate spurring them on. The other half contains organized, premeditated serial killings. If we adapt that theory to our previous results, we realize that 17.4 people die each minute at the hands of a serial killer, 25,000 deaths each day._

_9 out of ten serial killers cite some ulterior motive, to satisfy their own schismatical needs. _

_The last one though, is a special kind of creature._

**ooo**

_**Lupin House **_

_**48 Telegraph Track, Carshalton, Greater London**_

_**Thursday, 14. August, 7:32 a.m**_

Lee Jordan's voice sounded strangely distorted over the muffled cracking on Hermione's old radio in her second-hand Volkswagen Rabbit. Usually, there were no problems in receiving BBC London 94.9, but the closer she got to the Lupin house, the worse the radio reception became.

_"- attack on the MI6 building as the morning rush hour drew to a close. A bomb went off around 9 a.m at the MI6 headquarters. Twenty-three people have been killed, and more than a hundred injured. Let's listen to the recording of yesterday's press conference by Secret Intelligence Service Chief, Albus Dumbledore."_

The crackling intensified as Hermione took the next turn to the right, following the bucolic path deeper into the woods. Enormous trees were preventing any sunlight from breaking through. Lights were dancing on the thicket of colourful foliage, illuminating the path sparsely. The Volkswagen rattled over the stony path, and Hermione rolled down her window, inhaling the fresh smell of firs and morning dew.

_"Yesterday was a crude blowback that showcased the audacity and brutality some men possess, to damage our beloved city and country. Today, we recognise the incredible courage and leadership of so many Londoners in the wake of a terror attack at the heart of our city. We offer our deepest gratitude to the courageous firefighters, police officers, medical professionals and spectators who, in an instant, displayed the spirit London was built on and helped the injured to leave the crime scene. Be assured that we will not stop until we find the culprit and take him off the streets. London's streets will-…"_

Static was all that followed.

Hermione turned off the radio because she knew the speech already. She had seen and heard it yesterday afternoon on a little television in the corner of the E.R, while she was waiting for her medical examination. After the building had been cleared, all of them had been transported to the closest hospital; **St. Thomas,** on the Westminster Bridge. Fortunately, she hadn't had any major injuries; just scratches and a bit of smoke in her lungs from running around and trying to help her wounded colleagues at the heart of the mess. When crisis came (and it always came), it was often solved the way they were solving it now: doing their best with what they had.

She remembered the deafening sound of shattering glass and a clamorous bang that shook the whole building and her body alike. The ground was quaking for seconds, and for a split of a moment she thought the ceiling would fall down and crush them all. Then, she started running. She was still new at the SIS, even though she had worked as a profiler for three months now, but their department had been on the other side of the building, far enough for them to escape without any further incidents.

At 28 years and a newbie at field work, the first few months of her professional life had been entirely spent behind desks and archive records, under a superior who never took her brightness for anything more than a coincidence. She was all the more surprised when James Potter called her an hour ago and asked for her in person for this special case, revolving around one of the man's best friends. She didn't want to disappoint him.

Hermione shook the memories off and followed the path in silence until she reached the house on the far end.

The Lupin house laid secluded from other neighbours, between giant firs and birches that provided shade during high summer, as well as warmth during long winters. It wasn't a mansion, but big enough for a little family. During autumn**,** it offered a paradisal view of phantom lights reflecting on green and brownish colours. Now, barricades had been erected in front of the home, starting at the street.

Hermione counted five cars altogether; two patrol cars from the MI6 branch, two from the forensics and an older Peugeot 406 Break which belonged to James Potter, as she knew from memory. She used to be really close to Harry, James' son, and she remembered this car being in the family for ages. College years had made them grow apart but they still kept contact through e-mails and phone calls, and she secretly hoped this would change for the better again. Last she had heard, he had become engaged to Ginny, for which she was happy because the girl brought the best out of him.

She turned off the lights, grabbed her bag from the passenger seat and got out of the car, closing it in the process. She took her MI6 badge out and showed it to the guards who were standing at the barricades, already waiting with a smug expression for a reason to send her back again. One of the officers skimmed the ID with narrow eyes and let her pass a second later. Two more were waiting inside the perimeter right before the house, scanning the area with two white-clothed forensics at their side. They were searching for any indications to whom the murderer was, and counting the evidence-numbered place cards which were spread across the yard, they hadn't been really successful yet.

Forensics was a dirty job. It was all about bodily fluids, decay, blood and people at their worst. Sometimes, it was about giving a report with too little information, and even the most trained crime scene tech was still never trained enough to deal with everything at once.

She shut it all out and entered through the unhinged front door.

A stench, so despicable that tears gathered in her eyes, pierced the room. Bile rose in her throat when the staggering reek reached her nose in hot humid waves, until she felt as if she was drowning in a sea of innards. Hermione wrinkled up her nose, squinting her eyes in the process.

She kept walking.

The entryway floor was bright hardwood over concrete, quiet, polished, squeak-free. Three men, clothed in white plastic overalls and latex gloves, rushed past Hermione to leave the house. The only one remaining was currently talking to James.

James was already waiting for her, sleeves rolled up and burgundy tie loose. The man was in his late forties, his hair was uncharacteristically messy, much like Harry's and it looked as if he had run his hands through it several times. Wrinkles graced the red skin around his hazel eyes, reflecting grief and shed tears, and she could see the tense muscles at the corners of his mouth, the way his shoulders were slightly lifted and his slender body stood stoic.

There was another man right beside him, even taller, and lanky, clothed in the white forensic overall with fingers covered in baby-blue clinical latex gloves. The hood of the overall was down and shoulder-length black hair hung feckless and slack on both sides, a hooked nose disrupting an aged face. The man had black eyes which held a lot more wisdom than Hermione would credit him for. The moment she stepped closer, the said stopped speaking and looked her once over, clearly judging.

_Well, what a start._

James followed the man's glance and upon seeing Hermione, he managed to shape his mouth into something almost resembling a smile.

"Hermione, good to see you. I'm glad you made it." His tone was hopeful, almost desperate, and it put something heavy on her shoulders.

"The traffic was disastrous, but I managed to find my way." She gave a little smile herself and cleared her throat once more, the pain reflecting on her own features this time. "My sincerest condolences for your loss, James."

Hermione had met Remus and his family just twice. Once, on Harry's birthday party some years ago and then again last year at a summer barbecue at the Potter's. She remembered them as kind and loving people, the ones you would call to ask for help when facing a forlorn situation. She knew James had been close to them, as well as Sirius, Harry's godfather. It must be hard to lose a friend when the bond was as close as that of brothers. She couldn't imagine losing Harry, even though there was some distance between them nowadays.

James took a deep breath and swallowed hard, clearly still shaken from the circumstances. But he was brave, and nodded before he thanked Hermione for her understanding.

They stood in awkward silence for some seconds before the man at James' side cleared his throat vigorously, pointing at the file in James' hand with a single crooked finger. It stirred something in James, because he took the file up once more and finally introduced them to each other. "Right. Hermione, this is Chief Crime Scene Analyst, Doctor Severus Snape. He's our counterpart at the Forensic Science Service for the _Voldemort_ cases. Snape, this is Hermione Granger, she's-"

"I know who she is," Snape interrupted harshly and continued bluntly, "Let's hope Miss Granger's work is at least half as promising as it's reputed to be." His voice sounded almost hoarse, like a tape that you repeated too often and adjusted its equalization in the process.

Hermione felt her cheeks redden at the insinuation, but it challenged her inner intellect and she vowed to prove herself. His words left a bitter taste on her tongue and she couldn't hide her own animosity towards him.

"I will try to do my best, Doctor." She forced a smile but even in her own ears her voice sounded pressed, offended, like it always did when someone tried to question her work ethic - let alone her brain.

Snape furrowed his eyebrows, but it could have been her imagination. The man had a strangely stoical face, which made it difficult for Hermione to read him. But reading him was not her job. Not today at least.

The bestial stench still clung to her nose when James stepped forward and lead her to the adjacent living room. The room was spacious with a darker wooden floor and a vaulted ceiling. A matching dark couch was facing the entrance door and an odd-looking armchair was neatly placed besides the couch, but its cushion pattern didn't really match with the other furniture. Large double-paned windows looked out at the manicured lawn and brought bright daylight into the otherwise gloomy room.

It was obvious that the Lupins were trying to impress by blending in, not by standing out.

Two chairs were set back-to-back in the middle of the room, covered with white dust sheets, a deep crimson-brown stain on the wood under them, like a dried puddle of blood, dark, thick and congealing.

James stopped awkwardly in the middle of the room and handed the file to Hermione, his eyes trying to avoid contact with anything that could stir some unpleasant memories. Hermione took the file cautiously and flipped it open. Her eyes skimmed the text in a matter of seconds as she switched into her professional mood with ease. She took a notebook and a pen out of her bag and started to ask her questions.

"The corpses were identified as 37-year-old Mrs. Lupin and her 6-year-old son. Both were found yesterday night at 10:37 p.m by Special Agent Black - has he already testified about it?"

Hermione looked up, but James stayed silent. She waited, granting him a moment, and sure enough the man started to talk after some seconds.

"Sirius found them. After the Service found out that Remus was the bomber, Sirius insisted on bringing the message to Dora himself. I wanted to accompany him, but the mess at the headquarters just left enough room for one of us to go. When he arrived he found -… We didn't think that -…" His voice broke again and it took a lot of effort for him to proceed, shakily. Grief resonated in every word that left his lips. "Albus sent him to the medical department to undergo a psychological test before he can return to the field again."

"I'm sorry James…" She placed a hand delicately on James' upper arm and pressed her lips into a thin line. It was a small gesture of solace but he seemed to value the support.

He gave her a small smile and nodded his head in acceptance. His eyes were locked with hers, and even though his voice was grateful she saw that his mind was miles away. "Thank you."

"Which department did Remus work at?" she asked quickly and bit down on her lip a second later, as if to punish herself for her intrusive manner.

"TOAS."

Hermione raised her eyebrows at that, clearly surprised, as was her voice that mirrored the same shock. "He bombed the Technical Operations, Analysis and Surveillance Department?"

James nodded and grimaced, clearly uncomfortable with the topic.

"To the world, it will look like Remus really did it. The news has already leaked, his name was on the online site of The Times this morning."

Hermione could read the denial and wrath in his posture, so she gave him space to breathe and relax again. But he didn't. Instead, his words goaded his already heated state and he talked himself into a rage.

James' voice was pure venom and he spat the words in frustration, while his hands were clenched into fists. His body was tense to the point that the vein on his neck was pulsating with a throbbing rhythm and Hermione took a step back, watching the outburst from a safe distance. "It won't be long until the media will twist his name and actions until nothing remains but blatant lies. They're defiling his reputation, and even if we can link this slaughter back to _Voldemort_, we have nothing to link him to the bombing. It's utterly frustrating!"

The fire died as fast as it rose and the man looked suddenly older, exhausted, the amount of wrinkles on his face increasing, his eyes a desperate plea. Fatigue was reflected on his features. It pained Hermione to look at him and see his pride stricken, broken.

Her voice was calm when she asked once more, confusion seeping in her tone. _"Voldemort_?"

"What?" James snapped out of his melee of thoughts, as her question caught him completely off-guard.

"This is the second time you're mentioning it. _Voldemort_."

James curled his fingers into a fist and pressed his lips into a thin line. "We have reasons to believe that this was the next homicide of a serial killer who calls himself _Voldemort_."

"There was already one?" she pressed, her interest clearly roused.

"More like five."

The pen stopped sharp on the blanched paper of her notebook, and she glanced up, eyes wide. "Five?" Her tone was a whole pitch higher, and she bit down on her lip once more to cover up her obvious astonishment. Her eyes were searching for James' but he pointedly avoided them.

"Yes. This…barbarous cruelty bears his hallmarks. The murders are depraved, disgusting and usually we find a riddle attached to the victims, signed with an alias. _Lord Voldemort_. But this time we haven't found a riddle yet."

"A riddle? About what?" The question was shot right back, and she couldn't hide her excitement anymore. Some people would find this news macabre. To her, it felt exhilarating.

_Finally a chance to prove myself. _

Hermione's interest was awakened, but James looked shamefaced, angry once more. He snarled, his voice a strange mixture of fury and horror. "Different kinds of things, sometimes he cites a fairytale, sometimes another book. Once he even sent three full pages of a bloody book and we needed two weeks to find out which one it was. Even Albus didn't recognise it."

"So we still don't know what the riddles want to tell us?"

"Albus has a suspicion," James continued and faced Hermione for the first time since they had entered the room. His jaw worked a few times before he settled on the words, as if he was not sure about them. "He thinks the riddles lead to the next victims."

Hermione nodded and scribbled some details into her notebook. Like _intelligence, arrogance, haughtiness _and_ pride._

"Are there any other patterns he follows?" _Or she,_ Hermione added, in her thoughts.

"He murders in a rhythm of 41 days."

"Why 41?"

_Odd number, prime number, n__2__ \+ n + 41, Leonard Euler?_ Her brain was working at a high speed and she felt a tingle of anticipation shooting through her spine.

James gave a dry laugh, frustrated. "We don't know."

Circling the number on her pad three times, she made a mental note to take another look at it once she had all the information about the other homicides.

"Is there any other relation between the murders? Between the victims perhaps?"

James shook his head in defeat and Hermione sighed, her own frustration growing. Pinning her pen to the notebook, she fixed her determined gaze onto James.

"I need to have a look at all the files, the older ones too."

"Of course. Once the mess at the headquarters has been cleared, your SIL will get raised for the archive-"

A sudden ringing interrupted James' speech and he took the phone out of his pocket, reading the caller ID. He stretched his index out to give her a sign that he needed to take that call, and left the room once he had accepted it.

Snape emerged from the shadows next to the wall and came to a rest beside the covered chairs. "I think we should start with the crime scene investigation. Are you ready Miss Granger?" The man's voice was as indifferent as his mien, his former rudeness hidden.

"Yes." The agitation was clearly written in her eyes and it emphasized the pride which carried in her voice. She was ready for this.

_My first real case._

Snape looked her over once, but there was no trace of pretension in his dark eyes anymore. It was a mixture of curiosity and pity. A second later, he grabbed the blanket and pulled it back to reveal the chairs.

She waited for a moment until Snape had removed the dust sheet completely and packed it away, neatly folded. He retracted to the shadows once more and Hermione cut out everything else, concentrating on her job.

Her pen flew over her notebook, taking down notes, while her eyes scanned the room. Everything besides the chairs and the carpet was clean and nice, but unimaginative.

_No luxuries, middle-class._

She smelled blood, rotten flesh, and the heavy stench of molten skin. It left a burning sensation in her nostrils, a slightly painful experience that watered her eyes and she needed to blink several times until her view cleared again. A cloying copper tang rested on her tongue, like a mouthful of pennies that she couldn't get rid of, no matter how much she tried to.

Even with every light in the house blazing, the atmosphere was blurred. Something cruel had happened here. Terror had filled the air, people killed brutally, and the feel of it all was stifling.

The fear was still palpable, sharp and strong; the bestiality too.

There were no indications of a fight, even the smallest details were still as perfect as the framed photographs on the wall or the vases with orchids and lilies on the sideboard. Hermione saw a man and a woman in the photographs, together, smiling and getting a bit older with each photograph that followed, until they were holding a baby, that grew into a young boy. The last picture seemed to be the most recent.

The living room continued on the right towards the back of the house, seamlessly blending with the dining room, with the same dark wooden flooring. A mahogany dining table sat under a chandelier hanging from a long black chain attached to the high ceiling. A single white French door beyond the table led into the kitchen.

Again, all very unsurprising. Pleasing, but not personal.

Ahead of her was a stairway, zigging right to a landing, then zagging left to take you to its destination - the second floor. A door beside the big windows on the far east of the living room was leading to the backyard. _How did he enter?_

"Did you find any indications of a forced entry?" She asked casually and stepped closer to the chairs, crouching down to have a better look at the dried stains.

"Besides the unhinged front door that Special Agent Black kicked in with the force of a rampaging bull yesterday night? No." Snape's voice was dripping with sarcasm and Hermione mentally rolled her eyes, ignoring the allusion.

"What about the backdoor?"

"Unscathed and locked."

"Windows?"

"The same."

_What if he had a key? Relative? Friend of the family? No key could perhaps lead to the postman. _

She nodded and her eyes landed on the blood trails again which were pooled in a way that looked as if the person sitting on one of the chairs had bled to death. There were burns on the wood in an oddly brown-reddish colour, probably from the molten flesh and muscles of a body. Or at least what remained of it.

Hermione flipped through the file once more and looked at the pictures. Her stomach turned and she could taste the biting flavour of vomit on her tongue again. The boy's body looked intact with the bruising from the cords prominent around his ankles and wrists, protruding abstractly against his skin. His head however was twisted at a terrible angle, nearly 180°, so much that his occiput laid on his shoulder. His eyes were wide and bright blue, a terrible look of horror reflecting in them.

The other crime scene photos were even worse. Tonks' torso had nearly completely been corroded, her body was slumped on the chair, face distorted into an ugly mug. The skin hung loose, in shreds, starting from her cheeks down to her abdomen, where the rest of her innards had gathered in a puddle of flesh, purulence and a thicker fluid. Her wrists and ankles also showed marks from the ropes.

_Two different killing methods. Cervical fracture for the boy points to sympathy for children; unhappy childhood, perhaps negligence. Tonks' murder is far more perverted; could indicate a hatred for women. Perhaps they're oblivious of him, leading to a lack in self-confidence - though that would oppose his other behavior. But two different killing methods could also mean two murderers..._

Both had been pinioned. _What about Remus?_

"How many ropes did you f**i**nd?" She turned her head over her shoulder to look at Snape, who raised his eyebrows, surprised.

"Six."

_Two adult victims and a child - one of them a police officer - how did he manage to overwhelm them?_

She nodded and focused her attention back to the chairs and the stains. It looked like some evil creature had used Tonks' flesh as an abiotic puppet in a sick game. He had controlled and manipulated the body with such ruthless abandon, that Hermione hoped the poor woman had been dead from the start.

Months of being a profiler (and even before, since she had been a student) had taught her to keep a pair of fresh gloves in her bag, which she took out and slipped over her slender fingers, until they were covered as if by a second skin. With her index she scrubbed over the crusted spot, testing the condition of the material. It was still moist, nearly creamy with claggy bits in it.

_Coagulated Blood and…oil?_

"How long will it take for the laboratory to send the results of the DNA tests?" Her voice was pressed and professional as she stood up, flipped back to the main report and read over the neat handwriting to gather important information like time, clothes, evidence.

Snape grimaced. "At least three days, perhaps four. The mess at the headquarters will throw us back some days."

Hermione creased her face for the split of a second, annoyance clearly visible. She sighed deeply. "Alright. Did you find any sign of the killer?"

"No personal traces." Snape stopped and both turned their heads when James re-entered the room, squirrelling his mobile away. Hermione continued her consultation undisturbed, focussed.

"But?"

"We found a five litre can right beside the chairs. It was still half full."

_With oil,_ she added in her thoughts and jotted it down on the notebook too.

"Did someone take samples of the oil? Perhaps we can trace the distributor."

"Contrary to you Ms. Granger, today's not our first day on the job."

"No fingerprints, I guess?" she asked half jokingly, half serious but Snape just raised an eyebrow and that was really an answer in itself.

James chipped into their conversation, moving closer to both of them. "We never find any trace or evidence leading back to him. Everything's always clean."

_Too clean, almost clinical._

"What about the outside? Tire tracks? Footprints?"

"Nothing." Snape shook his head, his hair a flat swab, which was glued to both sides of his head and for a split of a second Hermione found herself questioning whether he simply didn't bother to wash it, or if he just didn't care.

_So he had observed the family long enough to have known their daily routine and environment._

James waited for her to speak again, but she didn't have anything else to ask at the moment, so continued. "The SID called me; they have found a fireproof bag amongst the ruins, a riddle inside."

Snape emitted a strange guttural sound, a mixture between a grunt and a snort, and when he spoke his voice was strangely stricken - but mostly annoyed. "So it's official now. This is the next Voldemort case."

For the fragment of a moment both men locked eyes, and James gave a nod, sharp and short.

Her interest was piqued once more, a strange desire to get her hands on a personal note from the killer sent a tingle down her spine. "What does it say?" Her voice was a greedy push, her eyes alert and sharp.

"Don't know yet, but we can have a look at it as soon as the forensics have finished with it."

"Alright." She felt the thrill flooding her nerves, something she hadn't felt since having made the decision to hunt killers, to become a profiler.

Her gloves emitted a squeaking sound as she ripped them off of her hands, crumpling them in the process. She kept them in her hand with a reminder to throw them away later.

Hermione handed the file back to James hesitantly, holding onto it a tad longer than necessary. "I need a copy of the records, as well as all the documents and medical reports you have. I need the riddles, the photos and the liberty to do my researches my way."

She was already composing a dozen arguments in case James refused any of her wishes, but the man surprised her. He nodded and said with an implicitness she had rarely heard before, "Of course."

She waited for another moment but he continued, unaffected. "I'll talk to Albus tomorrow, he'll give you clearance for the security level you need."

"Thank you." Excitement and gratefulness were clearly audible in her voice. She was determined to find a pattern in the homicides, or at least a clue in the riddle the killer had left behind.

Obviously startled, she bit down on her lip, tearing at the thin layer of skin in the process. It was a bad habit she tried to control most of the times, but forgot about the moment she experienced emotional encroachment.

James packed the file away and asked curiously, his voice hopeful, to catch a detail or explanation he hadn't heard already. "So, what did you find out?"

"Not much," Hermione shot right back. She flipped through her notebook again and stopped at the last page, shaping her thoughts and notes into intelligible sentences. The pen rested in her hand and served as a pointer for her explanations. "Male or Female, probably around the same age as Remus. Charismatic, or at least manipulative enough to get a family to let him enter their house during the early hours. There was no evidence of a forced entry which tells us someone let him in deliberately - perhaps they knew him, but it's more likely that they just didn't find him suspicious which adds again to nice charisma." She listed information off from what she had gathered and her tone and voice grew faster and louder, thrilled, with every word that escaped her lips. "There was also no sign of a fight, hence he probably downed Remus first. Afterwards, he stunned Mrs. Lupin, then the boy. Perhaps he used some narcotics, but that's for the laboratory to find out. He's likely mediocre to highly intelligent and works at a high position - if not, his genius is underestimated, but I need more data to read into this."

She turned from James to face the chair, pointing with her pen at it while she continued with her speech. "A high level of brainpower also account for the clinical state of the crime scene. He planned this from the tiniest detail to the biggest outcome. He feels safe and knows his superiority-"

"How could you possibly know that?" interrupted Snape, in a blatant manner, but Hermione didn't bother about it, and proceeded in the same unabashed way.

"The canister. He left it behind because he knew that even with the facts right before our eyes we would never find him. Not like this." She took a deep breath, a smug expression on her face as Snape fell silent. "Deducing from this crime only, I'd say he has a flexible job and is athletic, or at least sporty enough to run a few miles. Perhaps his hobbies contain something similar to jogging or running. He most likely came by foot, through the woods and obliterated his tracks when returning the same way. Roughly estimating, someone with a bit of training needs at least half an hour to an hour, starting from Wallington."

Her eyes caught the glance shared by Snape and James, and she took the opportunity to take some breaths in between. Her voice became worn out, but the excitement pushed her on, eager to tell her observations. She turned the page on her notebook and continued.

"Back to the job. The timing and complexity of the crime tell us that the killer works on a freelance basis or at least has a job with flexible timings. The crime happened yesterday, Wednesday, a business day, in the early morning hours. The boy was still in his pyjamas, Mrs. Lupin's nightgown was found in close range of the chairs, the bomb exploded around 9 a.m. The distance from here to the department adds up to half an hour, if you take the car. Why wasn't the boy in school? Why weren't Mr. and Mrs. Lupin at work? The answer is simple: the murderer came in the early hours. Probably even before breakfast. The kitchen table is unlaid - we could argue that the murderer cleared it up before leaving but I highly doubt that, considering that he left the canister behind. I doubt Mrs**.** Lupin was still alive when Remus drove away. Neither do I believe that the boy survived for longer than ten minutes after Remus was out of the house. He needed the boy to convince Remus, but as soon as he was assured that the bomb was on its way…"

She left the rest unsaid and cleared her throat once, twice. The words were spurting out of her mouth and she suddenly felt relegated to her college years, when her thesis was double the length that had been requested and her professors rolled their eyes each time she had another question, another chance to correct their courses. But neither James nor Snape, whom she could definitely imagine as some grumpy chemistry teacher, said another word. Instead they listened closely.

"This place is quite isolated. I'm not too hopeful of getting any information by doing some interrogation in the neighbourhood. This is mostly conjecture, considering that I don't know about his other murders. I'll need to have a look at the other crime scenes and reports to say more about his choice of victims. In a nutshell, our suspect is probably male, in his mid to late forties, slightly sporty, most likely successful in his job but socially withdrawn, intelligent, manipulative, unscrupulous, boastful."

Her cheeks flushed a light reddish-pink as her speech came to its climax and she stopped at the last syllable, mauling her lip again. "Of course, everything's absolute speculation as long as I don't have the remaining facts," she added once more, but fell silent afterwards.

Abashed silence spread over them and Snape was the first one to find his voice again, but it was still as annoyed as before. He took a step forward and his arms crossed right over his chest with ease, a manner he seemed to have adopted for years. "I'll apply some pressure on my men and ballistics. If you're lucky, you'll have the results and reports by Saturday."

James nodded automatically and rolled the file in his hand to fidget with it. _A habit to cover up his tension, _Hermione thought.

"Ms Granger." Snape tilted his head, in what might have been an appreciative nod, but most likely was merely a sign of politeness. He left before Hermione could say anything else. She turned to James once more, the cruelty of the room weighing heavy on their shoulders. A dark glimmer reflected in the photographs and she could see how James' eyes rested on the middle one, a picture of him, Remus and Sirius during their college years. They all looked incredibly young and she noticed the obvious similarity between Harry and his father. There was another boy in it, but Hermione had never seen him before and had the dignity to drop the question on her lips.

Instead, she asked something personal and her voice changed from professional to vulnerable in a matter of seconds. "How's Harry?" Concern was written all over her face and she felt the familiar concern over Harry's wellbeing. She was used to it by now. You couldn't be friends with Harry Potter without worrying about a dozen things all at once.

"He'll be fine," James offered, a tad pressed, voice solid. He ripped his eyes off the picture and looked at Hermione again, hiding his emotions behind glasses as big as his eyes. Hermione knew this mode of behaviour just too well. Harry used it all too often. "You could visit him."

"Perhaps I will." She gave him a reassuring nod, to which he responded after some seconds.

"Well, let's hope Snape will bring the reports soon. Shall I take you along back to London?"

"No, it's fine. I came by car." A small, calm smile graced her full lips as she declined politely but joined James, nevertheless, to leave the vile crime scene behind.

They left the house in comfortable silence, and fresh air hit her nose. She hadn't even noticed that her sense of smell had adjusted to the beastial stench in the Lupin household; the clean air felt strange at first and it tingled the inside of her nostrils, leaving a burning sensation at the back of her throat. The officers standing guard put the crime scene tape back on the door. James escorted her to her car, where he saw her off a minute later as his phone started to ring again. The man would certainly be busy these few days.

Hermione opened the vehicle door, needing to put a lot of effort in the act since it jammed all the time. She sat down on the cushioned car seat, closed the door behind and slapped her bag onto the passenger seat. Seconds passed and she needed to hold onto the steering wheel for a moment, the nausea from the horror she had just experienced nearly overwhelming her.

The odour that filled the car was a mixture of the lemon concentrate from her windshield washer system as well as her own perfume. She breathed deeply, in and out. Several times. But the disgusting stench of molten flesh and bile that clung to her nose didn't want to leave her.

She turned on the radio and started the car.

Static was all that followed.

**ooo**

_On the scale of cruelty, the Lupin murders certainly reached one of the highest levels, however, it isn't the worst I could have let you experience. People with a certain kind of familiarity with the subject may argue that my matters were already the most horrible case scenario. _

_In time you'll learn that you should expect even worse in my game._

_I'm not just any killer._

_And I win._

_Everytime._


	4. III

_**A/N:** I should mention that this chapter is by far the most cruel one I ever wrote and everyone should stay away who cannot stomach graphic depictions of violence, torture and death._

_As always, Hermione's ideas and thoughts are in italic._

_Due to copyright issues I couldn't post the text of one of the riddles. Whoever wants to have the full text can google it, it's not that big, just type: Borges' House of Asterion Text - and it should be the first link you get._

_Next chapter will be fun because we'll finally meet Tom (as he already announced in the prologue) so I hope you're all ready? ;)_

_As always I need to thank my beta ozzymandius for keeping up with my mistakes and many errors._

* * *

**ooo**

**Nothing is easier than to denounce the evil doer; Nothing more difficult than understanding him.**

**Fyodor Dostoevsky**

**ooo**

_The world has definitions and categories for everything and anything: for plants, for animals, even for trivialities, such as the breeding of paramecia. Since 1880, profilers have tried to divide murderers according to so-called murder criteria, certain key characteristics that represent the pit of human nature. There are seven categories, all with corresponding definitions; they're called the seven sins of murder._

_First: Satisfaction of Sex Drive_

_So-called sex killers kill their victims to reach their climax during the slaying. Sometimes they kill the victim first and satisfy their needs with the dead body - it's called necrophilia._

_Second: Avarice_

_Here the increase of acquisitiveness to an unhealthy, uncommon, debauched measure drives the killer. _

_Sometimes they murder to spare expenditures._

_Third: Base Motives_

_This is a vast division. Emotions such as revenge, envy, hate, anger, racial hate, disappointment during sex, compulsive egoism, and many more belong to this category. Basely is a motive as soon as it's driven by unrestrained instinctive self-seeking. It's reprehensible for common people, despicable._

_Fourth: Malevolence_

_Someone kills in malevolence when the killer consciously knows of and sees their victim's sorry condition or defencelessness, and takes advantage of it during the killing act. It's also accredited to malevolence if you kill someone out of the blue or from behind._

_Fifth: Cruelty_

_When the murder exposes its victim to particular severe corporal or mental tortures because of a relentless, callous attitude, it's categorised in the murder criterion‚ Cruelty._

_Sixth: Homicidal_

_Homicidal means to use resources during the killing act, the effect of which you aren't able to control properly. Their application is often used to kill or hurt a lot of people at once. For example through arson, explosions, gasifications._

_Seventh: Bloodlust_

_This is the darkest and by far the most gruesome of them all. Someone who kills out of bloodlust has an unnatural pleasure to take another human life. The only purpose this person has is the death of another, mostly unknown, human being. They kill out of curiosity, out of idle boast or pure amusement. _

_The only pinpoint of light is that it's eminently rarely found amongst murderers. _

**ooo**

_**MI6 Headquarters, Chief Dumbledore's office**_

_**85 Albert Embankment, London SE1 7TP**_

_**Saturday, 16 August, 7:57 a.m.**_

_39 days until the next murder_

Chief Dumbledore's office was surprisingly disorganised - though not really untidy, it just verged on being so. The room was spacious. However, every little corner of available surface was covered with books; his table was cluttered with papers and files, boxes of chocolates and boiled sweets, as well as a Newton cradle that was still swinging. She couldn't quite identify which wood the furniture was made of, but it was fair and nearly yellowish - spruce, she guessed.

A quick glance at her watch told her that she had already been waiting for half an hour. She sighed, exasperated, huffed, and crossed her arms. Being summoned by the chief could only mean two things: either she got a promotion or a reprimand. Considering her short recruitment, she didn't bet on the first one. Although, she couldn't think about anything she had done to earn the second one either.

The door opened mere minutes later, and Hermione mechanically rose and adjusted her blouse once more before taking the extended hand of Chief Dumbledore. The man was in his late sixties, but years as the head of the MI6 had worn him out. Hermione could see wrinkles and dimples around his eyes and the corners of his mouth, silent witnesses of the cruelty this man had already seen in his life. Surprisingly, his appearance stood in biting sharp contrast to his office. Hair combed back and beard trimmed, the man looked sophisticated with a certain kind of wit present in his bright periwinkle eyes behind his glasses. The suit he was wearing was just another indication of this.

"Ms. Granger, I'm glad we finally found the time to meet in person." His handshake was firm and warm, as was his voice. Hermione could see why people seemed to idolise this man, and how he could command attention in a room with ease.

"Chief Dumbledore, the pleasure is all mine."

"I'm afraid our time is limited. There are a bunch of interviews I need to give later." He sighed, as if to emphasise how much he despised the spotlight on his person. The reporters were already baring their teeth to ask the most obnoxious questions no one really had an answer to. It was as if they'd sit in their rooms and agonise over which questions were the most unanswerable for the cases - terrible little bloodhounds.

"James told me you were involved with the Lupin crime scene investigations?" Dumbledore continued as soon as he placed himself in a large desk chair, which was half-covered with blankets, worn sack coats, and surprisingly, a lot of ties.

"Yes, sir." The onslaught of grotesque and barbarous pictures of the scene was brutal, yet still so vivid before her eyes that she needed a moment to dwell on her words, tasting them on her tongue before she finally added, "It was … nightmarish."

Dumbledore didn't even grimace.

_Rigorous, hardened expression, points to a lot of experience in the past years. _

She could ascertain a lot more about the man by the way he moved his body or the way his jaws clenched around certain words, but she restrained from doing so. After all it was not her job to analyse _him. _

"I saw the pictures." His voice was calm as the night and nearly emotionless, as if he had tried to shut it out, but his eyes were something else entirely, nearly gleaming with something wild, and determined. "I think we agree that he must be stopped?"

"Of course."

He leaned backwards and gave her a nod while he searched for something on his desk. He grabbed a sheet of paper from under a pile of books, and for a second, Hermione thought he'd read its contents, but then his voice filled the room once more, "James gave me a brief summary about your presumptions regarding him."

"You mean Lord Voldemort?" She felt silly the moment she asked it - why should she think James meant presumptions about himself - but Dumbledore regarded her merely with an amused smile, nothing intimidating.

"Yes. Impressive indeed."

A decent blush graced both of her cheeks now, and once more, she bit her lip as her fingers played with the hem of her blouse, her fingertips rubbing over the silky material in a nervous manner. She wasn't used to so much praise from people in higher positions; mostly she was frowned upon, sometimes even scolded for her higher intellect and unconventional ways of thinking. A compliment like this, especially from someone like Albus Dumbledore, felt awfully out of place for Hermione, like praise she didn't deserve. So she mumbled, humble and a tad nervous, "It's all just that, sir, presumptions. As soon as I get the older files, I'll be able to make a better profile."

"Right. That's why I called you here in first place." A serious tone mixed with the playful sound of the chief's voice. His left hand opened a drawer and rummaged through it, but Hermione couldn't see anything helpful from her position behind the desk and her tension increased with every passing minute. A second later Dumbledore took his hand out of the drawer and revealed a golden badge. It had the same size as a police badge did, with a gilded surface and a raptor Hermione had never seen before - the beak was longer and a lot more pointed than a hawk's, the tail feathers were curved and peacock-like - and in a delicate curved script the letters OotP were carved. "This is the badge of an investigative commission I assembled myself. The Order of the Phoenix."

Her eyes were still entranced by the golden badge when the chief reached over the desk and laid the cold metal in her smaller hands. Reverent, her thumb brushed over the gilded face, tracing the shades and dips of the medal absently, her mind racing as she asked hesitantly, agitated, "Thank you sir, but I don't understand?"

"The Order of the Phoenix includes the brightest brains of the MI6, Ms. Granger, all of them chosen to stop Voldemort. The badge gives you access to the archives and all other information you need."

The answer sounded far too smooth, too often rehearsed, as if he said it a dozen times before. She became skeptic as she looked up to meet Dumbledore's glance, her voice reluctant, "But why me? Certainly you had another profiler. What happened to him?"

She could feel the clear restraint in the chief's voice, but his eyes never left hers. A clacking sound reverberated in the hollow room, and she could almost feel how he dwelled on his words, chose them carefully, which further filled her with disbelief.

"Let's say he couldn't handle it anymore. I'm afraid but that's all I can say about it." Dumbledore stopped any further protest with a hand gesture. A sigh left his old lips the moment he noticed the growing suspicion in Hermione's posture. He cleared his throat and started once more, "Ms. Granger, James told me you saw clues and evidence at this crime scene that nobody else noticed. You're a very clever girl and I'm confident -"

The door suddenly burst open, revealing a strict woman in her late fifties, with rigorous eyes and a severe sense of fashion - the pencil skirt was tight, her hair in a bun and small, wiry glasses were neatly balanced on her nose. The woman gave Hermione a mere nod before she turned on Dumbledore again, voice almost reproving, "Sir? Apologies to interrupt you but your interview with the Daily Prophet awaits."

"Give me a moment, Minerva. I'll be there in a minute." They both waited for Minerva to leave the office again before he resumed his speech, this time far more concerned than before, in an urgent tone. "Ms. Granger, I have trust in your abilities, and perhaps you should too. The world is a dangerous place to live in, not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don't do anything about it."

_Did he really just quote Einstein at me? _

They rose simultaneously from their chairs and Hermione cleared her throat, adding, "I'll try my best, sir." They shook hands once more but everything felt a bit rushed, too hasty - as if he wanted to get rid of her. Perhaps it was just her imagination, after all the man was the chief of the MI6 and he certainly didn't have the time for afternoon tea parties. Upon leaving the office, Dumbledore grabbed one of the stray ties - an ugly, mustard one, with broad diagonal stripes that patterned the tie.

"I'll attend the meeting as soon as James arranges it. Until then, Ms. Granger."

He led her out of the office, a strong hand on her shoulder that pushed her out of the door, and she followed his lead. McGonagall was still sitting on her desk when both of them entered the lobby, rising as soon as she spotted the chief right behind Hermione. A quick glance at the top papers was sufficient to know that they were dealing with Voldemort. Most certainly a press conference of some kind.

"Goodbye, sir." She gave a last nod to the head of the office and retreated to the far end of the lobby, where a glass lift was already waiting to take her back down to her private office. She pressed the button and waited, the golden badge still shimmering in her hand. Lord Voldemort had to be stopped, she needed to find a clue to bring them closer. With a loud tinkle the lift came to a halt and she entered it, pressing the button for the archive. As the glass doors were closing again, she noticed that Dumbledore had never once called him Lord. Just Voldemort.

She wondered what this could mean.

**ooo**

_**MI6 Headquarters, Archives**_

_**85 Albert Embankment, London SE1 7TP**_

_**Saturday, 16 August, 8:26 a.m.**_

_39 days until the next murder_

The archives were subterranean and stretched from the Western to the Eastern riverside of the Thames. They had been built in 1884, renovated once in 1947, right after the Second World War, and a second time in 2012 to relocate the main base where they kept older files and special folders. There had been a debate some months ago if all the files should be exclusively converted into digital data. But people voted against it - after all it's easier to hack some digital servers nowadays than break in and pilfer some handwritten files - so they had kept both.

The lift stopped and Hermione stepped out of it, while her hands were busied with tying the wild mess on her head into a ponytail - obviously the thick bulk of locks wouldn't be tamed so easily and three more attempts were needed until they finally clamped together. Her eyes darted to the different paths that the hallway divided into, and she decided to take a sharp turn left, to the Ongoing Unsolved Cases department.

Upon arriving at the information counter, she showed her police badge and a young man led her to a separate compartment. The room was large but crowded, with shelves full of boxes and files. A bunch of desktop computers were neatly placed side by side, forming some kind of wall behind which a surprise was waiting. Hermione got closer to the desk and waited, until the man wearing a brown cardigan turned around.

"Hey Neville!" She raised her hand to give Neville a small wave, and leant over the counter right in front of her. Some of the files needed to be pushed and moved aside so she could at least have a decent look at Neville, but finally she found a place to rest her arms.

"Hermione, good to see you. How are you?" The boy in front of her didn't remotely remind her of the boy she had met in high school; the chubby body had shaped over the years into an athletic form, the round chin made way for a pointed facial structure with beautiful walnut eyes which reminded her of a teddy bear, and even if the geek-ness was still present it gave him some kind of charm. His voice was deeper a than she remembered it, but friendly nevertheless.

She gave him an honest smile and couldn't stop the excitement that crept into her voice, "I'm fine, thanks. What about yourself?"

"The usual - coffee and Internet, what more do I want?" Laughter left his lips, a mixture between a dark rumble and a croak, something that had a strangely nice ring to it, and she couldn't help but fall into his laugh, gave a small one herself. It felt good when the weight on your shoulders lifted for a few minutes.

Soon enough she pulled herself together once more, the stiffness returning to her shoulders and her tone a tad more serious when she inquired, "Listen, can you gather everything you have in the records about Lord Voldemort for me?" Without further ado, her hand fumbled in her jeans' pocket and pulled out the shining golden badge that still looked like it was fresh out of the factory.

Neville's eyes widened in astonishment, and for a second Hermione really thought he would be too surprised to do anything, but then he opened the top drawer of his desk and took the same badge out from between some Snickers and staplers. Overall the badge looked haggard and rusty, the golden shimmer non-existent now. It reminded her of old gold that had dimmed over the time.

"Wow, you got promoted, huh? Seems like we're both riding the crest of a wave. I got my badge some days before Remus blew the whole department up… I mean, before… you know, the incident." His tone changed rapidly, excitement switching into guilt, and Hermione needed to suppress a laugh at Neville's clumsiness and the way his older self seemed to seep through. She almost felt transported to her high school years, when she constantly paired herself with Neville so neither Ron nor Harry could take advantage of her intelligence during the tests - after all she was the only one of the trio that studied to get good grades at all. Neville had always been this alien kid with eyes as big as a deer's caught in the headlights, the one that brought down your inner walls, and it amused her terribly that some things never really changed.

"Anyway," the boy, rather man, changed the topic once more and rose from his office chair to round the counter, his tone far more easy than it was mere seconds ago. "I put anything from those cases in a special folder. I'll go and take it out." His standing figure was even taller than Hermione remembered and she stared, amazed, at broad shoulders that disappeared between the shelves, which were bulging at all sides. She tapped her badge against the plastic covered counter several times, to give her hands something to do, while her eyes cast furtive glances down to the records on Neville's desk. Most of them were dealing with different kinds of crimes that had happened years ago; one of the records dealt with salary cuts, but none of them elaborated on the Voldemort cases, much to her dismay.

"Have you talked to Harry yet?"

His voice ripped her from her thoughts. She was completely startled, eyes alert to check if he had already returned, but the brown cardigan was still half hidden behind one of the metal shelves, so she exhaled and put the badge in her hands away, clearly uncomfortable with the topic. Her mind was racing and a good portion of guilt crept into her consciousness, making her taste the bitter smack of betrayal on her tongue. She hadn't spoken to Harry yet. She hadn't even phoned.

Clearing her throat, she dwelled on the words that felt as if they were biting at her lips, almost corrosive, and she was walking on eggshells here, trying to find the right words. After some seconds she settled on a casual, "Haven't had the chance yet, the case keeps me very busy." A pause, then, "What about you?"

His head bumped against the racks and he puckered his lips, shaking his head. A second later he disappeared again, this time further away but his voice was still audible over the boxes containing the cases and investigations. "But I met Ginny yesterday, she said he keeps it together. But, you know Harry, he wants to go after the bastard."

_Considering Harry's bad luck he'd just end up in a mess once more._

She bit her lips and thought about their last summer during college, when a life like this was far away and no one bore their future in mind besides her - always the wiseacre, the reasonable one of them. Her mind drifted away but was soon enough back to reality as Neville appeared out of the blue, records and files in his arms, none of them thicker than a poetry journal. Wonderstruck over the light literature, she accepted them and stacked them in her arms, nudging the badge back into her pocket.

Neville was strangely amused and gave her a cocky smile, leaning his hip against the counter. "Here you go. Oh, the new results haven't reached me yet. I think they'll arrive during the day. As soon as I have them, I'll send them to your office." With his free hand, he opened the door so she could pass.

_Very gentleman like. _

"Thanks Neville. See you soon."

The records in her hand felt strangely heavy and with every step she took her excitement grew more and more. Finally she'd be able to find something, to have a clue as to what went on in the monster's mind. She was already half along the aisle when Neville's voice followed her, a reminder for future meetings.

"Bye Hermione! Oh and next time bring some coffee!"

**ooo**

_**MI6 Headquarters, Hermione's office**_

_**85 Albert Embankment, London SE1 7TP**_

_**Saturday, 16 August, 11:44 a.m.**_

_39 days until the next murder_

The coffee mug from Florean Fortescue's was gripped hard between three fingers and a thumb, while her index twisted the doorknob to reveal her office behind the door. It was small, but comfortable, with a huge empty bookcase on the end of the East wall which reminded her unconsciously of a box full of books which still needed to be cleared out. But for now the spot on the floor right beside the bookcase seemed like a good place for it. The furniture was low-key, an office chair from the mall, desk, bookcase and a shelf from Ikea and everything else consisted of souvenirs from travels, trifles that had gathered around during her first few years as an intern in different departments. There was even a mobile metal pin board with Sharpies and pins, which had a place opposite to the bookcase and Hermione couldn't remember where she had got it from, by no stretch of her imagination. By now she was sure it had just added itself to her collection.

With a loud thud the records were placed right on top of her notes from Remus' case, while she put the mug on the side so it wouldn't wobble on top of the files. She peeled the blazer off of her shoulders and hung it neatly on the little garderobe behind the door. Her fingers fumbled with the scrunchy to tighten her hair once more, before she went back to her desk and pulled the sleeves of her simple white blouse up to the elbows. She granted herself a last sip of coffee before her hands busied themselves with the records, to draw them closer.

Four files were spread in front of her, which covered the wood of the desk, as well as the keyboard of her laptop, which she booted up by pressing the start button and a second later the synthetic blueish light reflected on the brownish hardcover that protected each page of the records. At the head of each record was the name of the victim, as well as the number under which the file was registered so far. The handwriting was identical for three of them, the fourth had a beautiful curvy script, almost italic, and Hermione was sure she had seen it before, but she couldn't remember where.

Order was her topmost priority, so she started to flip all the records, shifted them around until they were sorted by date and not by name - starting with the first victim and ending with the last. Or better, the one before Remus.

To her relief, each sheet was marked with the case's number, so she could easily remove one of the pages for further investigation and still know to which case it belonged, to put it back later - handy when she'd have dozens of sheets on her dash after some days.

First glance through the records confirmed her theory, that they were assorted from pictures to reports and at the end of each file was a sheet protector which contained the riddle that was found at the crime scene. The dates were exactly 41 days apart, the locations sounded familiar - all of them in London - but none was connected to the one before, neither to others from the list.

She opened the last drawer of her desk to take a map out of it, neatly folded so it wasn't bigger than a common letter. Carefully, so as to not rip the paper, she unfolded it and left her desk to advance towards the metal pin board - the thing would be useful after all. She spread the map over the whole surface and tightened the corners with magnetic pins that Harry had gifted her some years ago; they bore famous little quotes of great minds like Voltaire and Rousseau. There had even been one with a quote from the Queen Mum, but Hermione had lost it soon after Harry had given them to her. So she gave more attention to them now.

Some quick steps brought her back to the desk, where she withdrew some smaller pins out of the first drawer - just some simple knobs that she labelled from one to five, and applied to the map a minute later. Each knob showed the place where the victims had been found - but nothing seemed to connect them. Knob number five, for the Lupin case, still rested in her open palm, because the map solely showed the capital of Great Britain and not the outer or inner boroughs of the county.

A step back helped her to have a better view of the whole plan that was spread in front of her. The crime scenes weren't related in any special manner; neither by distance nor by names or environment. Instead it all seemed pretty random at first glance. The only thing that linked them was the fact that they had all been found or killed in the capital - with a time lag of 41 days.

_All of them had been found in London, so why had he killed Tonks and Edward in Carshalton? Except…_

Her gaze rose upwards and caught the address of the MI6 building, central London, Albert Embankment.

_Except Tonks and Edward weren't the victims in this case. They had been collateral damage. _

She spun the pin between her thumb and index finger a few times more, but after a while she realised, that this must be the right assumption to make - as macabre as it was. She pinned knob number five right over the bridge on the Thames. Sadly it didn't bring her any closer to a better explanation of how the murders must been connected, because even with five pins on the pin board she couldn't find a pattern or design behind it.

_All the victims were found with a distance of around three to ten miles apart. Approximate geological radius scale equals ten to fifteen miles. If Nymphadora and Edward Lupin are to be considered collateral damage, perhaps there are more victims who have been overlooked in the overall image. _

A deep sigh left her lips and she pressed them into a fine line, suppressed the urge to start to gnaw on the thin layer of skin again. Another gulp of the coffee helped to clear her head for a second, and she sat down on her desk again, opening the first record right on top.

The record was titled Lavender Brown, with the file reference that followed, in capital letters and numbers, in a fairly messy handwriting - the same that was on the following two records. It was by far the thinnest dossier of them all, containing a handful of photos from the crime scene, as well as an autopsy report, a report from the police officers that had found her, a report of the SID and the sheet protector along with the riddle. By her side lay her notebook, ready with a pen on it so she could jot down some fast notes if she needed to.

Hermione started with the general facts that had been easily identified in the police report. Lavender Brown, 25-years-old, Caucasian, born and raised exclusively in Britain, average height and weight, intern at a prestigious law firm, found by a jogger in the Guy Street Park, near London Bridge Station. The riddle had been tucked neatly in the left socket of her eye, covered in plastic so no blood would smear onto the paper.

_A bit reckless to kill her in the park - or drop her there. Most likely in the early morning hours; would point to the same time as the Lupin murder, approximately. A law firm could compare with Lupin's position in the MI6, but she was far too unimportant as an intern._

While skimming the text, she took the photos and spread them over her desk to have a better idea about the crime she was reading about, in black ink on white paper. The girl lay on her back on the lawn, arms beside her head with bent shoulder and elbow joints. Her clothes were noticeably tidy, nothing pointing towards a fight or any other external forceful impact. No dragging traces, no footprints in the mud, nothing.

_As if she had fallen from the sky. _

Her coat was open, sweater and shirt were rucked up to reveal a small strip of pale skin right over her skirt - pale but unharmed. The report clearly showed no physical evidence, no sexual imprints.

_Not a sexual offender._

Head and face, however, were bathed in blood, with extensive abrasions which affected all the skin on the front, bridge of her nose, nasal wings and cheekbones. Besides the vast grazes in her face, her upper and lower lids on both eyes were coloured dark violet and blue due to perianal haematoma. The first autopsy report had found fly eggs in both lower lids, and especially during warm temperatures flies tend to lay their eggs after the first eight hours - preferably in the eyelids, nostrils and mouth. No sepsis of the corpse had yet set in.

_He kills fast, maximal length of time between 6 to 12 hours, so far._

The report noted moreover that the upper and lower jaw were both unnaturally flexible, as if the girl had rubber-hinges in her mouth. Another glance at the photos showed the girl's maimed face in all its glory; her oral cavity was filled with blood and teeth that swam in it, the nasal skeleton was fractured as well, the ear was smeared with blood and there was a note saying that a dark black liquid had seeped out of her ear when they had turned her around.

_Basal skull fracture._

The most terrifying feature was on the next picture; the officers had pushed her eyelids back to reveal the eyes - but there were none. The report read that the murderer had removed the eyes one by one, carved them out with an anatomical precision. Furthermore, both eye sockets were smashed post mortem and the cerebrum in that area had been no more than a bloodshot, mushy bulk that rested in the hole like a scoop of ice cream. There had been a frothy bloody fluid in her trachea and in her lungs - a sign of vitality and forensic proof that the victim had been fully conscious during her torture.

_Definitely sadistic, compulsive behaviour. Anatomical and medical experience._

It turned her stomach.

More pictures of the autopsy followed but nothing of importance caught Hermione's eye, besides the gouging out of her eyes. It was indeed a known criminal act that profilers called depersonalisation. It's a desperately hostile and humiliating act against the victim. The aggressive and brutal approach of the murderer lead often to extreme mutilations that made the victim downright unrecognisable. The perpetrator wants to anonymise his victim, to deprive it of its identity.

_Did he possibly know her?_

_Or she_, she added in her thoughts, but an instinctive feeling told her that the killer was male. Next up her hands grabbed the sheet protector and she took out the paper inside with careful fingers. It was incredibly mundane in the end, a clear bleached sheet, no bigger than a half a page, with a typed message in the centre. The script was, unconventionally, not Times New Roman, but rather Arial - or Helvetica, if he used a Mac.

**the thing sizzled like hot metal dropped in water while I twisted it like an auger. yesvapnputzrgnhzqrrmfyqdtdsooxmsazymihiqsuxx**

Puzzled Hermione read the message again and again but she couldn't see any more in it other than what the decrypter and Neville had already worked out. The text was part of the Odyssey, book nine if she recalled rightly, when Odysseus pulls the Cyclops' eye out.

_Could be an indication to the murder - perhaps he murders with a literary flair?_

The code however was nothing she suspected at all when James had mentioned it some days ago in Lupin's house. The apposition of the letters, as well as the length, gave no hint to anything about the case - neither did the text. A quick glance at the attached report told her that the cryptography department had tried every known cipher method to decode it - algorithmic, symmetric, asymmetric.

She took a photo with her mobile camera and jotted down the notes, as well as the whole riddle, in her notebook and grabbed the next record to continue her investigation. After all she had no time to lose.

The record read Mykew Gregorovitch, accompanied by the corresponding file reference - just like in the case before. It was a bit thicker than the one before and Hermione had the slight suspicion that it was due to the fact that they hadn't known that Lavender's murder would become the first in a chain of serial murders eventually. The reports changed from the official London Police Department to MI6 files right after the first page and this time there were a lot more photographs than in the one before. Nearly a dozen, she'd guess.

Everything in this file was surprisingly flat; Mykew Gregorovitch, 61 years, professor of chemistry at the London Metropolitan University, Russian, born and raised in Kasan and immigrated nearly forty years ago, found by a farmer at Freightliners Farm in the Paradise Park - or at least what had been left over of him, because the only thing what really had been found was a head.

Bulging eyeballs, impaired cornea, pale skin, almost green and grey due to the putrefaction, exposed nasal skeleton and nasal septum. Both ears intact, as well as the jawbones and all the teeth - they were affected by his age, but not due to his death. Greasy, pastellesque malacia of cervical visceral. More details were unfortunately not discernible because the decay process had eroded all features and contours of the face. Only the stubble gave him away as male.

The head had obviously been placed in a water tank or container of some sort to expedite the deterioration of the visible facial parts, and later it had been brought to the crime scene. The body had never been found and the agents responsible for this case had identified Gregorovitch through his natural dentition - and with the help of his local dentist. For a second Hermione searched for the dentist's name and breathed in relief when she read that it was neither her mother's nor father's name.

_He furthered the decomposition, so that the investigators would need some time to identify the victim. Propensity for sadism is still visible in his actions, but otherwise, there's no conjunction to the first murder._

The photographs were as bad as the ones of Lavender, and the flashlight illuminated the scene in a grotesque and bright way that made it look all the more disgusting. The water had macerated the skin and transformed it into a greyish substance which reminded Hermione of rubber. The glassy, almost pupil-less eyes gushed out of their eye sockets and the left side looked as if some animal had eaten the flesh from it, which exposed the jaw's musculature and even the molars, and distorted the face into a ghoulish grimace. The cut on the edge of his neck was neat, almost careful, so nothing looked rough or frayed but clean and sharp.

_Talented in handling different tools. Medical knowledge is to his advantage._

Any vitals, which could have shown if the head had been decapitated ante-mortem or post-mortem, couldn't be found during the investigations. It was indeed possible to determine the murder weapon based on the structure or the pattern of the wound - for example with a saw, an axe or anything similar, because any tool leaves traces on soft tissue and bones behind. But the water had washed away all the bleeding from the lesions - if there had been any at all.

_Damn._

With a frustrated groan she ran her hand over her eyes and flipped through the record once more to take a look at the riddle. She stopped, however, midways and gazed at a little note which she had overlooked the first time. In the same curvy handwriting that she had already seen on the label of the last record, was written: _steel rope, 0.6 diameter._

A mixture of excitement and the thrill of a hunt jolted down her spine. Her hands were already searching for the picture of the wound, the clean cut on the skin, and it fitted, the steel rope, it would answer the question, but why wasn't it in the official report? Her notebook almost filled itself with her thoughts and observations, but nothing else could be deduced from those papers so she put them away and took the riddle that was still waiting in the protection sheet for her to have a look.

The first thing she noticed was that the paper was the same as in the previous instance, as well as the script. However the text this time was lengthy, covering three pages. Hermione recognised the text within the first few lines and she was reminded of the talk she had had with James some days ago, when he had mentioned that no one had known this text - not even Chief Dumbledore. For a second she was inclined to deem them all as uncultured primates - _How could they not recognise Borges?_ \- but she stopped herself midway and concentrated back on the text.

Again, it gave nothing away, this time not even a hint to the murder itself so she went on to the letters but nothing seemed remotely reasonable.

_doxexbnxmnhgsaqhqnrvnympaofemiokzrpims, perhaps every second letter? perhaps every third? or some letter behind? _

Her pen scribbled on her notebook, but even after some attempts nothing looked like it was even close to a solution, so she ripped the page out and threw it in the bin.

_The riddle changes every time, it's not a continuation of the one before. Not the same author, not the same topic. Homer and Borges both speak about mythology - potential coherence?_

She felt a sudden tension building in her shoulders, so she rolled them several times before she took the next file in her hand, already skimming the page for the obvious facts. You could clearly see that the MI6 took this one far more seriously than any of the others before. The structure and even the careful details that were all listed inside the pages was proof enough. Sheets upon sheets of research from the SID was attached but none of it held any information that aided their investigation.

This time, the victim was female again, and for a second she thought that she had found a pattern of rotatory genders - first a female victim, then a male, then female again. A quick glance at the next record confirmed her suspicion at first - the next had been a male again - but then she reminded herself that Remus had been male too, so her theory slumped.

_The Lupin murders consisted of an entire family, not a single person - if I don't count Nymphadora and Edward as collateral damage. His victim count increases._

She sighed deeply and started to read again.

Hepzibah Smith, 56-years-old, unemployed, American, born in Kansas and raised in Westminster, average height and an obese figure, found in the Royal Botanic Gardens by a gardener in the early morning hours.

Hermione took the photographs out of the file and spread them all over her desk again, an action that she regretted a second later, when her eyes glanced at the ghastliness and ferocity with which the woman has been disfigured. Her lower jaw has been completely dislocated from its original position, probably with the same saw that he had used to remove her upper jaw. Both maxillae, as well as the jaw angles had been ripped out of the structure so the killer could excoriate the skin from her nasal wings down to her neck. The vocal folds were exposed, the flesh from chin to mouth hung limp and in folds. In consequence of the missing jawbones, her face looked like a shrivelled balloon.

_Looks like a death mask._

Everything was soaked in blood, especially the grass and soil under her which looked like a giant red sponge. The woman's skin was pale, almost without any colour due to the high blood loss. Both her hands had been cut off sharply, sliced at the middle of the wrist bones - both missing, like the jaws. The autopsy report read moreover, that they had discovered a blood aspiration in her lungs - in other words, both jaws had been sawed out alive and blood had run into her throat and larynx, forcing her to breathe it in.

A shiver went down Hermione's spine and she shuddered from the sudden coldness in the room. She could taste bile on her tongue. The disgust she faced right now flipped her stomach over, so she took another sip from her coffee mug. She didn't even register that it had gone cold during the passed hours.

Whoever killed the woman was no fool, by any means. Many killers draw their knowledge from detective novels or Hollywood movies. Most of them think, that pulling all the teeth from a body will veil the identity of their victims. Just a few knew that this just exacerbated an investigation but didn't stop it. The removal of both lower and upper jaws, as well as both hands, however, was obviously the work of a professional.

_Dentists would know this. Dentistry would also overlap with medical knowledge. But without any physical fingerprint, how did they identify her?_

A quick glance at the records told her that they hadn't, until mere weeks ago, when her landlord had reported her missing. Another note was attached to one of the pictures of a bleeding stump, reading the same message as in the last record: _steel rope, 0.6 diameter._

_The rope could also point to a butcher. Overly precise approach. Crime scene always tidied up. Place of discovery and actual scene of crime can't be the same._

This could indeed explain the clean cuts again but it wasn't confirmed yet, so she jotted it down in her notebook for further investigation.

More reports and files followed and Hermione skimmed the texts, read over notes that James had written down in his messy handwriting, read anything that roused her interest, but nothing seemed to bear a clue or further indication. She was as clueless as James, it seemed. In the end, she went on to the riddle.

This time, the text was far smaller and she wasn't really surprised to find the same bleached paper, the same script once more. Again, she recognised the text at first glance, but who would not?

**You think perhaps this is the Duke of Athens, who in the world put you to death. Off with you, monster, this one does not come instructed by your sister, but of himself to observe your punishment in the lost kingdom. etslamzwdozhohtvohwsttslaevnapggudgg**

_Dante's Inferno, XII, 16-21. Well educated or at least deep-read. No mythology this time, author Dante Alighieri. But the letters are still a mystery to me. _

The only thing she had noticed so far, was that none of them had been a prime number, nor had they anything to do with the number 41. She googled the quote of Dante with her laptop, but nothing popped concerning either the barbarous murder of Hepzibah Smith or the letters at the end of it.

_The lines belonged to Virgil, Canto XII is called Inferno, 16-21 in comparison with the numbers? What do I miss? _

Her pencil circled Canto XII at least four times before she let out an exasperated sigh. Her eyes felt heavier and heavier with each passing minute. She rubbed at her tired eyes and put the files on the far end of her desk to reach for the last one. At least, she wanted to read all of them today. She could grapple with the riddles later.

The last folder was the one with the neat handwriting on it, and astonishingly it was ordered and tidied in a remarkable way - reports were sorted by date, pictures were accompanied by notes from the reports and important facts were even highlighted with a yellow colour so she didn't need to skim the text several times to grasp all the vital data. It looked almost too perfect - save for the abomination that was reflected by the pictures right in front of her.

The first thing she noticed was a burned corpse which had been downright skeletonized by the flames. Arms and legs were bent like a foetus, as if the victim had tried to protect itself from the blaze - but no posture could protect you from such a fire. The explosion had swept across the victim with such a destructive force, that even his incisors were burnt into his jawbones. Bones had splintered from the cranial roof and out of the hole oozed charred brain tissue. It was repulsive, at best.

Her first instinct was to flip the file shut and take several deep breaths to calm down again. Her mind was racing and it made her feel dizzy, so she kept drinking the cold coffee out of her mug until it was empty. She needed to focus again - and ignore the chill that crept down her spine from time to time again. This killer was far more dangerous than she had ever imagined - and she wasn't sure if one man or woman alone was capable of committing all these murders. Each of them bore the markings of another hand, all of them were unique, almost exceptional and conspicuous that she didn't know how one single human being could encompass all this. It was thrilling - it was frightening, nevertheless.

Her heart slowed down again and she waited until the silence of the room stopped feeling stifling, but instead welcoming again. Then she picked up the record and flipped to the first page, the one with the vital information that she had skipped half an hour ago.

Cedric Diggory, 22-years-old, student of physical health at Cambridge, Caucasian, born and raised in London, tall, found in front of St Thomas' Church by a nun in the early morning.

_Early morning hours confirmed as a pattern now._

The fire had burnt away any facial features, until they weren't recognisable anymore. The body was a mere scaffold of seared bones over which his charred flesh was disseminated like a patchwork rug. The adipose tissue and muscles were scorched - not really fully burnt, unlike the fat, which in the human body contains oily components that readily burn at high temperatures. The skin was nearly non existent now and the shreds of flesh that still clung to his bones were burnt and red under a carbonised black surface.

_Almost like lava in a volcano. _

The report had a remark which said that they couldn't reconstruct his body size or weight anymore, because the fire had burned down all the important components. Testimonies confirmed later, that he was an good looking boy with an athletic scholarship.

The whole cranium was coloured grey with ashes, with empty eye sockets that reminded her of a skull. Upper and lower jaw were both in ruin, several teeth were completely burnt and the tongue was in the state of cooked flesh. His locomotor system - elbows, cartilages, sinews - were seared to a black mass that looked like the rubber of car tyres.

The pictures showed a black-brown, molten amorphous masse, upon which just the skeleton skull and the remnants of the arms and legs were faintly reminiscent of a man. The explosion had apparently frontally hit the boy because his chest cavity was blown open, three ribs were completely smashed due to the fire, the others partly black and bent out of the torso like the planks of a burnt ship.

She could see the lungs and diaphragm which had shrunk to a quarter of their usual size, and due to the heat, the air in the intestine had warmed up and caused the abdominal captivity to pop from the pressure. Parts of the small intestine gushed out of the wound and dispensed black over the whole lower stomach.

_Eels._

Out of chest - and abdominal cavity - leaked, besides the smell of scorched flesh, another pungent scent: petrol. The first thought that came to her mind was that this could hint towards the use of a combustive agent. But a second glance at the report showed her, that someone had already made a note about this - the same person who had noticed things before.

_Highest level of sadism. Unrecognisable condition, almost depersonification._

More reports and pictures followed, each more callous than the next, and she flipped till the end to have a look at the riddle which seemed almost innocent compared to the sadism she had just witnessed.

**The Abbey burned for three days and three nights, and the last efforts were of no avail. mlaidtdqnamoyemxekbqvseyfznwqdnf**

She recognised the text but couldn't place it at first, so she looked it up in the file and was surprised to see that it was an excerpt from **_The Name of the Rose_**. It had been ages since she had read that book, and it was quite obvious that the first message referred to the killing method once more.

_Perhaps the other messages were meant to describe the crimes too?_

A frustrated curse left her lips and she shut the laptop, exasperated, leaned back into the embrace of her office chair.

_The victimology after all four murderers inclines towards a male. His medical knowledge doesn't automatically point to a medical career - he could easily have adopted this behaviour from books and investigations; his high level of intelligence and literary knowledge speaks for itself. Flexible job and athletic built are still in the running, because he needs the strength to dump his victims at different places all throughout London. The records don't give a lot away - or anything at all, really. The murders had been beastial and brutish at best, no traces had been left behind, no clues or hints behind these riddles. The killer is clever, rather ingenious, and that turns him into something dangerous. Something perilous. _

The juristic definition to describe a murderer implies that the suspect needs to act out of one of the seven murder criterions. Her despair was clearly written on her face because this one wasn't a normal murderer, by any means, for he could not be exclusively allocated to any of the seven categories.

_His demeanour points to bloodlust, while his actions point to homicide and cruelty. He's not just any serial killer. He's a predator._

Her hand ran over her hair, that was still tightened in a ponytail, and she opened it up to lift a bit of the tension that had built on her head and announced a soon-to-come headache - or worse a migraine. She felt her eyes burn from the hours of reading in halogen light and her bones were weighing down with weariness.

_Better to combat the fatigue with a mug of coffee - or rather an espresso. _

She pushed her chair back and stretched her arms wide over her head, blinking several times.

She couldn't fight the yawn that escaped her dainty lips.

**ooo**

_**MI6 Headquarters, Hermione's office**_

_**85 Albert Embankment, London SE1 7TP**_

_**Saturday, 16 August, 10:27 p.m.**_

_39 days until the next murder_

"Hermione?"

Alarmed, the mess of wild locks startled, a frantic look in her big brown eyes that reflected the bright neon lights and made it difficult to recognise the looming statures right before her. The spectrum of different coloured stars was dancing right before her eyes, as if she had just woken up. But how could that be possible, had she been asleep at all? Her head felt disoriented, her consciousness a bit blurred, and she needed to blink several times against the blinding light before the smudged edges finally sharpened themselves.

"James? I'm sorry, I didn't notice you." Her voice was sleepy, a slur on her lips when she rose and tried to stack the files on her desk. She was thankful for the shadow that James casted over her, so she was shielded by the blinding light once more. As soon as the tiredness left the rest of her body she looked up, into James' eyes, and was immediately met with concern that was written all over his face.

"Well, you were certainly busy it seems." A nod in the direction of her desk was enough to remind her of why she had been tired as hell. A deep blush started to build on her cheeks and she felt the skin heating up while her fingers were busied with bundling up the records in their usual shape. In the meantime, James put a new record on top of the older ones, labeled with Lupin's ID.

"Here, the new files of the Lupin family and the bombing just arrived. I thought I'd bring them, considering that I wanted to talk to you either way." His voice was stern, serious and he couldn't hide the grief that was resonating in thick waves from it. For a second Hermione's sense of compassion kicked in, but she suppressed the urge to tell James that everything would be okay soon enough. Perhaps it never would again.

"Always the swot, aren't you?" Upon hearing the gravelling sound of another voice that had just entered the room, Hermione swirled around and found herself face-to-face with a beautifully sculpted man, high cheekbones and grey eyes, a top model haircut for platinum blonde hair.

_Draco Malfoy. _

For ages the boy, now a young man, had made her life as miserable as could be. His rich, presumptuous demeanour, let alone his boastful entity and his snobbish yet bossy attitude has more than once been the reason to start an intellectual duel - which she almost always won. Sadly, the prick was far more intelligent than anyone would give him credit for.

Out of habit, her voice turned sour and bitter and she forgot the good manners she was so fond of. She retorted back, nearly snapped, "If I didn't know better, I'd say you're jealous, Malfoy."

"And what should I be jealous of, Granger?" His reply was a snort, razor sharp, the same conceited detachment in his tone as was years ago. He leaned on the nearby desk and Hermione followed every movement of his hawk-like eyes, noticing the way they gathered information from nearby records and loose pages. She felt her body straining, her hackles rising at the sudden intrusion, as if she was a cat waiting for the attack. James stopped her however.

"Okay that's enough." A tad exasperated, James intervened and put a stop to their childish banter - and even if Draco acted as unashamedly as before, Hermione at least had the decency to blush at her naive behaviour. Another sigh left James' lips and the man crossed his arms before his chest and pushed his glasses up his nose, a habit that Harry adopted some years ago, which made her always wonder why he never bothered to buy a new one that fit better. "Seems like I don't need to introduce you to each other anymore."

They both shared a quick look but neither dared to answer, so they kept silent and waited for James to go on. Silence befell them, though not an unpleasant one, and James waited for another protest but when no one said anything, he continued in a calm voice, "As you surely know, we work in teams. Always two by two."

Hermione suspected bad, in fact the following was vaguely perceptible, and her eyes already begged James to drop the subject, pleading not to speak it out. But of course, she was met with a cruel fate in the worst shape possible.

"Hermione, Draco will be your partner for an indefinite period of time."

There it was, the cruelty was inevitable.

She struggled hard to keep her face stoic but in the end she grimaced, groaned, exasperated, "Isn't there any other option?"

"I'm afraid not," James replied, but he looked neither too worried nor sorry, instead there was a tinge of amusement in his voice. "Besides, believe it or not, Draco is an excellent Intelligence Officer and has worked on the Voldemort Case since the first victim."

"Splendid." Voice dripping with sarcasm, she spared a glance at the supposed James Bond who was still leaning against the desk. She could sense how he observed her out of the corner of his eyes, with a certain kind of mirth behind those steel-grey orbs. Hermione found it utterly disturbing what he could trigger in her with a single glance - she wasn't stupid, but neither was she blind. Draco had always been a handsome boy, but the masculine jawline and the wild hair gave him an extremely dangerous edge which made her weak in the knees, her pulse a little faster.

Unfortunately the man in the leather jacket ruined it all when he mentioned casually, while flipping through one of the records (and how in hell did he even get his hands on it?), his voice a tempting flirt, "Come on Granger, your mind, my good looks, and LV will be behind bars faster than anyone can say his exorbitant name."

"Perhaps you should start calling him by it instead of shortening his name to the initials of some inflated fashion brand." The verbal counter left her lips before she could stop herself but Draco didn't react, instead he bashed it away like some pestering fly of no importance, and continued to read through the record without a second glance at her or any indication of having even heard her. She sighed in frustration. "Anyway." Her hand snatched the file that Draco was studying, out of his hands, and placed it back where it belonged, in chronological order. "Let's get to work. There's still a lot to do."

Even before the last syllable had left her lips, Draco doffed the thick dark leather and hung the jacket, that looked far more expensive than anything Hermione owned, on the back of a chair, and sat down on it in a swift motion. He grabbed the record again, out of the pile that Hermione arranged just a minute ago, and before she could further protest, James had already caught her attention, nodding to the door.

"Hermione, a word?"

She frowned once at Draco's attitude, who was behaving as if it was his office and not Hermione's, but she refused to let him get to her again, so she turned around and followed James out of the room.

The door closed with a faint thud, and James looked visibly uncomfortable about the topic. He cleared his throat several times and Hermione felt out of place, first tapping one foot and then the other, her nervousness obvious.

"The funeral will be the day after tomorrow." He paused, as if to think of how to phrase his next words, and then carefully resumed once more, "Everyone will be there, including Harry, and I thought you should be there too." He paused once more and Hermione felt the weight of his words heavy on her shoulders, an invisible question and demand at once. She needed to think about it, her mind racing before it stopped, so she nodded, and replied, murmuring, "It's alright. Of course I'll come."

The weight of insecurity on James' shoulders dropped at the same moment as that on Hermione's increased. The man turned to go, hand in the air with a waving gesture. "Good. I'll see you there."

Hermione watched him take some steps, but he stopped soon enough and turned around once more, his expression clearly conflicted - as was his voice, "Oh. And about Draco, give the boy a chance. I know he can be -"

"Boastful? Presumptuous? Vain?"

"- hard to handle. But he's good at his job. Believe me." His smile was weak, almost forced, but there was something lingering in his eyes that made his words almost believable.

The girl didn't even try to hide her obvious disdain for the platinum blonde man, with whom she'd be forced to share an office for the upcoming weeks, and her tone was consequently adjusted to her facial expression, a frown on her lips.

"We'll see about that." There she stopped and gave him a small smile, at least one she hoped was somehow reassuring because the fatigue was clearly written all over his visage, and Hermione scolded herself inwardly for not having noticed it sooner. "Go home James, greet Lily from me."

"I will. Good night Hermione."

Her eyes watched him disappear behind the wall on the far end of the hall, which gave her mind the chance to drift off for some seconds. Working with Draco would be a living hell, but perhaps they'd finally find a clue that'd lead them somewhere. Minutes passed but she remained standing on the same spot where James had left her. An overwhelming silence laid itself over her like a thick cloak of shadows, but she wasn't afraid, and instead leaned into it for a bit longer. The distant clacking of heels ripped her out of her stupor. Draco was waiting. A deep exasperated sigh left her lips as she turned around and faced the door to her office once more.

She took the handle and pressed it down.

**ooo**

_As a murderer you should think long and hard about what specialities your work should have. Make it hard for the profilers to categorise you. You need to fit in the norm, because the worst that can happen to a profiler, is when the murderer doesn't fit in their pattern. Then most cases will be put away or deemed too hard to close and end up cold, in a box in the archives. _

_Of course it's hard to be a good killer - not everyone's capable of being the next Jack the Ripper, you know? _

_Profilers categorise murderers in seven different groups, but that doesn't leave a big margin for a killer to make a suitable decision. My qualifications are virtually outstanding when it comes to the categories of cruelty, homicide or bloodlust. But don't be a fool, categories are not something I endorse, and I absolutely loathe dim and obtuse people who try to pigeonhole me and put my name in headlines, when their little, dense brains can't even grasp the message behind my oeuvre._

_With time they will learn that they should at least give me the respect I deserve, don't you think so?_

_They should open a new category for me. _


	5. IV

_**A/N: **_

_So here we are, we finally get to meet Tom! Isn't that what you were waiting for? ;)_

_I wrote the chapter in such a way so that even if we read what the omniscient narrator says, it usually focuses on Hermione and her point of view. This means sometimes Riddles reactions/actions don't exactly mean what Hermione thinks they mean._

_Shortcut explanations for this chapter:_

_BAU - Behavioral Analysis Unit_

_A thank you to everyone who read and reviewed my story. My special thanks goes to my lovely beta ozzymandius who has the courage and patience to put up with my tons of typos and syntax mistakes._

* * *

**ooo**

**Never attempt to win by force what can be won by deception. **

**Niccòlo Machiavelli; **_**The Prince**_

**ooo**

_A body without a head - this spectacle terrifies and fascinates people since the year dot._

_Amid the osseous skull lies the encephalon which operates the mental and cognitive functions alongside __the __unique controlled emotions of each human being. They characterise us and __enable people to be distinguished as individuals__._

_No other part of the body shows __the true_ _nature and inimitability of a human being as precisely as the head, __which __is, alongside the heart, the only other organ whose existence is __essential __for the survival of the entire human organism. _

_Almost every organ can be transplanted or __surgically __replaced. _

_All of them - __except __the head._

**ooo**

* * *

**Saint Bartholomew's Hospital**

**W Smithfield, London EC1A 7BE**

**Tuesday, 19. August, 9:21 a. m.**

_36 __d__ays until the next murder_

Finding a space in a London car park during the morning rush hour was nearly inconceivable. For Hermione, it felt as if half of London was on its way to make her morning an unforgettable disaster, and she cursed in no less than three different languages as some upper-class office executive, in a carmine-red BMW roadster, snatched the last space from right under her nose. It took ten more minutes, before she finally found a hidden spot behind the Barts Hospital, to park her Volkswagen Rabbit. However, the moment she left the car, her red Converse bogged down in a puddle of old London rain and dirt on the streets.

She cursed once more.

A text message flashed on the screen of her iPhone, as she grabbed the mobile. as well as her bag from the passenger seat, shutting the door with a sway of her hip, while she skimmed over the message and locked the car with her key.

_Where are you?_

_-DM_

The message in the grey speech bubble flashed bright on the white screen of her mobile, and she didn't even need to look up at the name to know that it had been from Draco. Her eyes flickered up to the digital clock on her phone. The Lupin funeral had already started, and she would bet everything she held dear that the whole MI6 department would be present already - everyone besides her.

It had been a tough choice, when she decided that she wouldn't attend the funeral with the other members. Seeing the masses of grieving people and friends would lead to a rise in feelings and sympathy in her; she couldn't risk her feelings clouding her professional view of the case.

Feelings lead to assumptions, assumptions lead to mistakes and mistakes lead to death.

She sighed, but her thumb was already tapping on the screen to post an answer, while she hurried around the corner to the front of the hospital.

_I'm following a lead. __S__orry, can't make it. Call you later?_

_-HG_

_All __right. I'll let you know once this is over._

_-DM_

His answer followed without any delay, and she wondered if his fingers were trained due to the year-long texting under his school desk; she reminded herself, however, that he had never been one for doing things in secret, so she came to the conclusion that it was pure bravado and a considerable portion of arrogance.

Droplets of rain started to pelt on her head, so she hurried along and entered the hospital via two enormous wooden doors which creaked at the hinges. She needed to throw the weight of her upper body against them to push them open. She stumbled in and switched her mobile to silent while the doors closed with a tremendous hollow sound behind her back.

King Henry VIII's influence and ascendancy were clearly visible to anyone who had a decent knowledge of British history, the age of the building bringing a certain kind of charm into the walls. The staircase lead Hermione to the hospital's Great Hall, a double-height, Baroque-style room, with a few paintings on movable stands to adorn the walls. In the middle stood a circular desk which served as the reception. Hermione approached a thin, dark-haired woman with energetic strides, while her drenched Converse left squelching sounds with each step, on the cold tiles.

"Good morning, I'm searching for Dr. Riddle?" She took her badge out of her back pocket, and the woman's eyes widened, which gave her a horrible horse-like look. Hermione's eyes rested on the name-tag for a second, a habit she had maintained throughout the years to memorise the names of the people she met.

Petunia, as the horse-like human with a neck that appeared twice as long as usual was named, pursed her lips and pointed towards the far end of the aisle. Her voice was jarring, and for a second Hermione thought of nails scratching over a chalkboard. "Follow the hallway to the right and take the elevator down to -2. Dr. Riddle should be in his office." It was obvious that the woman was interested in what someone like Hermione could possibly want from one of the doctors, but Hermione didn't bother to carry on with the conversation. Instead, she bid her goodbye and followed Petunia's instructions until she reached the elevator, which was, unsurprisingly, out of order. A deep sigh escaped her lips as she turned around and took the stairs.

The basement was dark and narrow, far darker than Hermione had expected. Flickering, yellowed neon lights were casting gaudy shades on the ceiling. She followed the aisle past a bunch of doors, which obviously lead to exam rooms and other offices that were currently unoccupied, until she reached a metallic double door with little windows, to have a look at what lay hidden inside. A bright light was shining from the inside out, and she spotted a patch of dark hair that was bent over a table, obviously in the middle of some kind of examination. She pushed the doors open and stepped inside the room.

The room was, to her utter astonishment, modern and clean, almost clinical, sterile with white walls and tiles that stretched throughout the room. She could spot a metallic autopsy table in the middle of the room, with several delivery boards that held medical and scientific equipment. A man was hunched over the corpse on the table, his blue, gloved fingers buried inside the chest. The room was enormous, and the voice of the man who dictated something to a nearby voice recorder, echoed, making a hollow sound. Her unannounced arrival didn't seem to startle the doctor at all, because he continued with his examination unaffected, almost ignorant of her presence.

"Female, central European, estimated age due to the status of her internal organs between fifty and sixty," he said, and Hermione wondered for a second if he hadn't noticed her entrance. She cleared her throat, but his slender hand, still clothed in a sky-blue medical glove, shot up and silenced her, before the first syllable had even left her lips. A bit sulky, she pursed her lips, but the man resumed indifference once more and continued his dictations.

"Objective criteria, such as rectal temperature and performance measurements, as well as the ambient temperature at the crime scene, point in conjunction with rigor mortis and cadaveric lividity to the onset of death, which was maximal thirty-six to forty-eight hours ago." He lifted the skin on the stomach to reveal little, white eggs that nestled on the pinkish raw flesh around her navel.

Hermione suddenly felt sick and she turned her head around to rest her gaze on a set of metallic instruments, all of them clean as a whistle and almost innocent-looking. Looking at crime scene pictures was one thing but it was another to stare at a corpse seated right before her eyes, close at hand. After all, she was a profiler, not a pathologist.

Five cases, seven deaths in total, and little time left before the next victim showed up at their front door. Not one of the other BAU members before her had found any clue. They had already crossed the time limit four times; she'd make certain they wouldn't cross it a fifth time.

After a while, the doctor straightened himself and flipped both external skin-flaps over the opened stomach and intestine again. He didn't stitch it back up, so Hermione assumed that he hadn't finished the autopsy yet but rather stopped it out of politeness. She observed out of the corner of her eyes how the man doffed the gloves, from his long, slender fingers with a squeaking sound, before he reached over the steel sink to wash and disinfect his fingers with a special kind of liquid soap. It held the typical clinical hospital smell, that seemed to cling to the walls and staff in the same way some cheap perfume stuck to a stripper's skin and hair, and Hermione could smell it even though they were standing some feet apart.

When he turned around to finally face her, hand outstretched to turn off the tape recorder in one fluent move, he was not what she had expected. All the online articles and pictures could never do justice to the beauty of the man's actual face. His nose was incredibly straight and aristocratic, and split his face into two perfect symmetrical halves, with high, razor-sharp cheekbones. His eyes were of a strange bright grey colour, with dapples of steel-blue around the iris. They seemed focused, highly attentive of her, as they roamed over her body once and stopped at her face again. They were shielded by long black eyelashes, which would make any girl jealous. Perfect, full lips graced his overall sculpted face, and Hermione didn't even notice that she had stopped breathing the moment he stepped closer.

"I don't recall any reporters or student interviews scheduled for today. This place is usually closed off for lurking spectators, so I'd suggest you leave the building before I'll call the security guards, Miss." His voice was suave but smug, almost thick like honey, and something warm spread through her body, something pleasurable, even though his tone was clearly dismissive. An expensive cologne floated around him, and she found herself ensnared by the delicious scent it radiated.

"Forgive me, Mister Riddle, but I'd have introduced myself sooner if you-" she started, but was interrupted mid-sentence by his snarl.

"Doctor. And I'm not interested in your excuses, just leave." Even though the words were meant to be polite, the chill in his tone was unmistakable.

"_Doctor_ Riddle," Hermione corrected herself, wondering if he had got out of the bed on the wrong side this morning. She fished her badge out of her back pocket once more and hastily flipped it open. His eyes shortly roved over the shining metal and she suddenly felt as if his behaviour had got even more cold than before - if that was even possible, that is. "My name is Hermione Jean Granger, I'm a special agent for the MI6 and I'd like to ask you some questions, _Doctor_."

"Special agent?" He asked, almost a tad derisive, which felt an awful lot like an insult to her ears. She was almost sure that his intense gaze had darkened just seconds ago, but it vanished almost immediately, so she dropped it. Slowly, he extended his hand towards her, and she took it for a short, firm shake. His grip around her delicate fingers was firm and solid, confident. "And why do I deserve such an honour?"

"I'd like to have your opinion on a recent case," she said matter-of-factly, and pushed a single strand of her bushy hair behind her ear, before crossing her arms over her chest.

"So the MI6 can't even find any consistencies on its own?" A dark chuckle accompanied his sarcastic words, and she noticed that his tone hadn't changed; it was still frosty and confrontational. Almost gleeful.

"That's not what I meant!" she countered immediately, feeling her frustration with the man growing with each passing minute. Perhaps flattery would ease his mood. "You are an expert on decay of the human body, as well as anatomical and forensic autopsy. I have read a lot of the works you have published and I'd like a second opinion on some of the victims."

A strained silence fell over the room, and Hermione started to count the seconds ticking by on a nearby wall-clock. Their eyes were locked and she didn't know what exactly the doctor was looking for, but he seemed to have found something, because after an endless amount of time he further straightened his already upright posture.

"I see." His eyes never left hers, and the gaze from his pale grey eyes was more than just intense. It was intoxicating, devouring, and something far more powerful, something hard and stoic. Something dangerous. He didn't avert his gaze, not once. He mentioned casually, while pointing to the still-open corpse on the autopsy table, "Unfortunately I don't have any time to spare today. As you see I'm quite a busy man. Call the department office for a collaboration on police investigations and get an appointment." He had already turned around and left her standing like a little child.

"You don't understand Mister Ri-" she started again, and was promptly interrupted once more, this time with far more venom and spite in his voice.

"Doctor," he emphasised the word, while facing her, with a hiss, almost as if he was trying to teach her some respect. The white coat swirled in a short movement, but then the thick fabric laid flat against his body again. His temper died shortly after.

"_Doctor_ Riddle." She grit her teeth, and the word left a bitter taste in her mouth. She didn't know why he was so obsessed with his title.

_He's still young, far __younger __than most doctors with the same achievements, working in the same field as him. Could mean __that __he __constantly feels the need_ _to prove himself to the world._

Hermione snorted, dissatisfied. "I don't have any time to lose Doctor Riddle. Clearly you read about the bombing in the paper a few days ago?" She waited for the man in front of her to nod, once, shortly, before she continued in the same accusatory tone, "National security depends on this."

"National security is always in danger as soon as the MI6 is attacked," he resumed a disparaging tone, and it sounded as if he just wouldn't take the matter seriously, not in the slightest. To cap it all, he sneered, and with sarcasm dripping from his voice, replied, "So lets see, how can a humble pathologist like me help the Crown, Miss-?"

"Granger." This time Hermione was sure the doctor had mocked her; there was no way that he hadn't caught her name at the start of the conversation. Her mood had reached point zero by now and she didn't even try to hide her disdain for the way he treated her. Her eyes slid shortly over to the corpse, but found their living counterpart soon enough again. "Could we perhaps move this conversation to your office? I'd find that a tad more _comfortable_."

Slowly, he turned his face to have a look at the corpse, then his eyes wandered back to look down on her with a good portion of scorn. His tone was still charming, but something else swept around the edges, something taunting and scoffing, almost as if he was speaking to a child. Or a person he didn't take seriously at all. "Of course. Follow me."

A sudden blush crept into her pinkish skin and reddened the flesh of her cheeks.

_Splendid. What a start._

Riddle turned around but never took his eyes off of Hermione, pointing to a nearby door which was strangely hidden besides a cupboard - she hadn't notice it when entering before. He led the way through the wooden door and she followed blindly, putting away her police badge in the process. Her childish nature rose to the surface because she was tempted to make a face or a grimace, and she barely refrained herself from doing so. There were too many glass walls and mirrors in the room that could give her away and she didn't want to push the man's ego even more.

Upon entering the office she first noticed that it was astonishingly small and unfurnished. It couldn't be bigger than a storeroom, which surprised her, considering his name and reputation. The room held a desk, with a leather office chair, as well as a couple of lockable file cabinets. It was flooded with tomes on nuclear medicine, as well as autopsy reports, handwritten papers and notes, neatly glued yellow post-its which were written in such a straight and accurate way that it looked like someone had held a ruler underneath it while writing. Riddle pointed, most likely out of politeness, to the office chair, so Hermione could sit down, before he went on to the rearmost wall, which contained something like a kitchen unit; a little sink, and barely enough space for a fully automated coffee machine and a small fridge underneath.

"Coffee? Water?" he asked, while he had already pushed the button on the coffee machine so it could warm itself up. It began to grind the beans with a nasty, raucous sound, and Hermione waited until the noise had died down before she addressed him again.

"Water, please."

She grabbed her bag and opened the zip to take the files out, and then held them on her lap. She didn't want to push aside the things on his desk and jumble them in the process; she detested it herself if someone just suddenly messed with another report or even worse it went missing once people tried to make order on her desk. Better to let a person sort out their own belongings.

She had heard about the man before, read about him too, but this was the first time she had encountered him and got to experience his magnetic personality for herself. It intrigued her, the name Tom Marvolo Riddle, one known and spoken about all over Britain, with people falling over themselves to talk about the man. Charisma was a dime a dozen with doctors, but with Riddle to call it charisma was almost cheap.

She could see why now.

A quick glance didn't give much away about the man, just a pair of reading glasses that lay on top of a pile of books, one of which was even written by himself.

_Bloody __Narcissist__._

Unfortunately, she was the one who wanted something from him, not the other way around. She needed to cut the man some slack.

"May I ask why of all people you chose me to help you with this?" Riddle drawled, almost amused, putting a coaster under a fresh glass of fizzy water. The cup of coffee he had made for himself rested in his left hand. It hardly even trembled when he bowed down to draw out a wooden stool from underneath the desk. He sat the cup effortlessly on the only place on the table which wasn't covered with any documents or files, and made just enough space for her to deposit her records.

It was clear that he wasn't exactly thrilled at the prospect of helping her out. She could read it not just in his tone and behaviour, but more in the way he pressed his lips together and furrowed his brows. Or the way these long, perfect legs were crossed right beside her. He was dominating the room, too.

_Chin up, chest out, shoulders back, enigmatic smile. Clearly dominative posture. He feels annoyed for some reason. No, not exactly annoyed. Rather … suspicious?_

"I was given this case myself just mere days ago. I would prefer to have another pair of eyes, a neutral doctor's, take a look at it to see if you can catch something that no other perhaps has. This killer is highly unusual, so I need one of the best doctors around. And your records speak for themselves."

Flattery usually helped to ease the mood, but the man didn't take the bait. Instead, he took the first case from the pile in Hermione's lap, pushed the elegant reading glasses onto his nose, and started to skim over the words and pictures.

The silence brought peace to the room and it felt strangely comforting to watch the way Riddle's facial muscles worked in perfect unison. She leaned back in the, admittedly really comfortable, office chair and observed the way his grey eyes read over the lines with a rapidity she had seldom seen before.

_Speed reading. _

She remembered that she had read, in one of the online articles that Google spit out, that he had attended Oxford and graduated with some of the highest grades ever, with the best first-class references one could only wish for. For a split second she wondered whether he ever strove for more than this teaching position at St. Barts, publishing a book or two and making ingenious scientific discoveries now and then.

"No external corporal harm besides the obvious basal skull fracture, extensive abrasions on the skin and nasal wings. Perianal haematoma on both eyelids due to the excising of her eyeballs." His tone was casual, almost bored, while he recited the obvious wounds and his conclusions. Then, he added thoughtfully, "It's a rarity though, to see someone killing with such brutal force and yet such precision."

He arched a single, perfectly shaped eyebrow as soon as Hermione started to rummage through her bag. She had found her notebook easily, but the cheap ballpoint pen she used was missing from its usual spot. She gave a sheepish smile as long, slender fingers held a sleek, silver Montblanc pen out for her, that looked far more expensive than the entire contents of her whole bag. She took it hesitantly and started to write down her notes.

Tom Riddle's eyes fixed on hers again and he added, a tad cynical, "Usually, enucleators like him would more likely prefer to leave their victims in one piece to marvel at them. Such a rush of anger and rage that led him to smash their heads to a pulp doesn't match with the precision and patience he clearly showed while cutting the eyes out of the sockets."

"Well, he's no Charles Albright, that's for sure," Hermione snorted, fiddling with the clasp of the pen.

"No, he's not.", Riddle replied reluctantly, frowning. A pause, then he added, "How about Albert Fish?"

"Fish was a pedophile." She turns up her nose in disgust, but writes the name in her book, nevertheless. More comparative data and analysis could always help the case. In the end if he'd prove unnecessary she could just cross him from the list again.

"But his perversion and sadism resembles that of your cases, no?" Riddle pressed again, taking a sip of his coffee. A challenge flashed through his pale grey eyes and Hermione was suddenly reminded of her time in college, when she was head over heels in one of the debates. This felt like mental warfare, and she realised that he wanted to test just how far her intelligence really went.

"But Fish was a lust-killer. This one is … _different._" Her hands were still busy with the clasp of the pen, and she had started to gesticulate with it, turning it between her fingers.

_Voldemort is no lust-killer. He doesn't seek sexual satisfaction in his acts. _

At this point, Hermione even doubted that he sought any emotional satisfaction in his kills.

"Oh?" The grin spread wide on Riddle's face. He pushed his chin even higher in the air.

_Mimicking __body language, firm and precise movements, straightened spine. What a wise guy._

Hermione wished she could punch the smugness off his face.

"Well, it's too early to make assumptions of course, but nothing indicates towards anything of a sexual nature in his murders so far."

That seemed to be enough because the man returned his attention to the file in his hands. He closed it shortly afterwards and reached over the distance between them to hand her the copy back.

"For more precise answers I'll need to have a look at the corpse myself." Even while his voice was back to its usual distant tone, his posture was still attentively directed towards Hermione.

"That's impossible," she admitted hesitantly, while shifting uncomfortably in the chair. Her tongue ran over her teeth. "No one knew at that point that the girl would be the first in a line of victims of a serial killer, so the parents cremated her."

For a split second Riddle's face went completely blank. Hermione wondered if he had some kind of neurology-based opinion on cremating; sometimes pathologists reacted strangely, as if attacked, as soon as the topic came up.

He composed himself quickly enough though, before closing the discussion around Lavender Brown, "Well, I'm afraid that on the basis of these pictures I can't tell you any further." It almost sounded pejorative to her ears, but she didn't comment on it.

She flipped through her files and handed him Diggory's record, the thickest so far, and leaned back again to wait for further deductions. Riddle scanned the pictures, as well as the medical reports, and she wondered, not for the first time that day, what went on behind those highly vigilant eyes of his. Her gaze wandered over the piles of books and records on his desk.

"Even experienced and highly intelligent pathologists, as my humble self, can't deduce anything from victims with a burn above the fourth degree, besides the fore accelerant or the location of the impact of the explosion. An identification of the victim is extremely rare," he finally said, faster than Hermione expected.

"Depersonalisation of his environment seems to be an important subject in his works." she retorted immediately, but Riddle looked smug, his smile sharper than a butcher's knife, that fitted perfectly with his high cheekbones. It was a mix between a sneer and a smile; Hermione wasn't sure if she should feel praised or offended.

"It's a superior form of art, Miss Granger. It's a concept that modern performance artists like Gormley or Abramovic love to push and showcase nowadays, but its roots go way back, in literature and human nature too." He pushed his reading glasses up and tapped thoughtfully on the thin, metallic frame.

"If you're talking about T. S. Eliot's theory here, you need to include Freud's as well, and then we have a whole other subject. Freud was clearly stating that every human being has the need to express their natural instincts through some form of neurosis, while T. S. Eliot was talking about the distance a poet brings between himself and the view presented in his poem - he depersonalises himself in the act." she huffed and leaned forward, ready to defend her point of view if necessary.

But Riddle simply shook his head in some strange sort of sadistic amusement, and when he spoke his voice was darker than before, deeper, with a certain kind of bite at the edges.

"He depersonalises his subject. It doesn't matter if we're talking about a poem or a contemporary art piece depicting the decay of the human body in modern times; in the end both end up depersonalised and stripped of any connection that's left to the human world."

_And the killer does the same._

Hermione's mind started to race. With a flick of her tongue, she wet her dry lips and suppressed the urge to tear on the sensitive skin there again.

_If depersonalisation is not just a part of him that tries to bring distance between the victims and the world, __instead__, if it is some kind of way to arrange his murders __so as_ _to bring distance between __himself __and the victims, then it'd mean-_

She felt the dots connecting in her mind even before she could grasp the vital information herself. "So you're basically saying that he's trying to talk to us through his art?"

"Merely offering another point of view. Wasn't that exactly what you were asking for, Miss Granger?" Riddle said, closing the file once more. He reached over the table, eyes fixed on her, almost hawk-like. Even though Hermione was busy scribbling down notes, she noticed the way his previous behaviour vanished under a cover of interest. He almost sounded sorry when he added, "As far as identification goes, however, I'm afraid I won't be of much help, considering the state of the body."

"We already identified him," she shot right back, then added casually, once his eyes widened in surprise, "We were lucky that some of his fellow students could help us out. A DNA test confirmed it."

"Huh. What a coincidence." His tone was flat and didn't give much away, but Hermione didn't notice either way; she was too busy completing her notes before handing over the next two files. Riddle took the record out of her delicate hands and flipped it open, but his eyes rested secretly on the woman in front of him for a few more seconds. He observed the way she bent over her notebook, eyes transfixed on the words that came pouring out of the pen, his eyes traced the veins in her neck that were throbbing slightly faster than they were just mere minutes before. He savoured the moment, then addressed himself to the folder in his hands.

"Our investigations reveal no clues about the murder weapon. I was hoping you could help me out with identifying it." The silver tip of the pen pointed to one of the pictures, which showed a terrible, weathered head on a special foliage, with a small evidence-numbered place card right beside it. Riddle seemed to be searching for all the vital information in the files because it took some time before he spoke again.

"Clean, precise cuts. No fringes or shreds of skin on either side. No recesses, most likely dissevered in one blow. Knives and swords always leave behind little edgings of skin - no blade is sharp enough to make such a clean cut. Not even a guillotine. Besides, a guillotine would be rather incongruous for the murderers needs. Hm." He stopped abruptly, and his pupils dilated for a split second. His face was strangely blank again, and the fake fluorescent light made him look unhealthy and even paler as before. When he finally spoke again, his words were carefully chosen, almost weighted with a good portion of respect in them, "Your idea, Miss Granger?"

Hermione followed his indication and spotted the memo at the edge of the paper, small and in a perfect, clean handwriting.

_Steel rope, 0.6 diameter._

"Yes," she said, the lie on her tongue solid and firm. She didn't even blink. She didn't know who had written the memo, but she didn't really care at the moment. No one would mind if she'd make it her own for the time being.

Riddle leaned back, the file light in his hands, and gave her a calculating look. When he spoke, his voice was dark and appraisive, accompanied with a genuine note of respect, "I'd definitely consider your method. It's an unusual method but it'd explain the clean ends on the stumps. Butchers often use this method to cut meat and steaks in perfect portions. It's also used in car repair workshops to cut windscreens out."

His eyes darkened further and the balance in the room shifted noticeably for both. Hermione wet her lips once more. Had the air in the room been this stifling before? She took a sip of water, which had long stopped fizzing by now. Her attention was all on Riddle, who leaned forwards now, clearly showing interest.

This man knew how to use his body. He was seductive, mesmerising; he was a weapon.

"However, to make a better deduction, I'd need a comparable cutting wire, as well as both parts of the body to examine." His voice finally cut through the tension in the room, and he added, almost immediately, words thick with sarcasm, "Please tell me the MI6 has at least these two corpses and their components to do a professional autopsy?"

"I'm afraid we don't," Hermione murmured, rasped almost, so she drank another gulp of water, and then set the glass aside, on the coaster. She suddenly felt hyper-aware of his presence around her, so she straightened herself, cleared her throat twice, before addressing him again. "The murderer took the stumps from the second victim, and the third… well, let's just say we haven't found the body yet." She wouldn't dare say that they didn't have any hope of it turning up now, not after nearly ninety days. "I could arrange for you to take a look at the remaining body parts if that would help," she added hesitantly, while her fingers were busy toying with the clasp in her hand.

Riddle stopped her with a wave of his long, bony hand. A small frown appeared on his forehead, and he said, lips pursed, "I'm afraid it won't. Without the stumps or the torso it's almost impossible to deduce the murder weapon for sure."

Nodding absent-mindedly, she flipped through her notebook, which contained pages of different equations as well as coding systems to break the code on the riddles, but also some questions she had put down for herself to remember later on. It was a bit disorganised and she decided to sort through it again soon enough, when she found the page she was looking for. "Is it possible, as a woman, to find the required strength to chop someone's head off with the cutting wire? Or am I right in assuming that the killer must be a male?"

"Well Miss Granger, Newton's Second Law teaches us that it's not a matter of the gender. Neither of them would be able to do it alone." There it was again, the flicker of something curious and dark, something challenging.

Hermione frowned.

_So does this means there are in fact several killers? No, that wouldn't make sense. The profile clearly points to a single offender. Newton's Second Law… Wait. __Force __is the product of mass and acceleration. So that'd mean-_

"He used the body weight along with high acceleration as some kind of mechanism to behead the victim," she said, voice barely above a whisper. Her right hand tightened around the silver metal clasp until her knuckles stood out, white.

"A human alone would never be able to find the strength to decapitate someone, as funny as it looks in the Sleepy Hollow movie. We always need a force or movement that provides the strength for the act. It doesn't matter if it is a woman or a man who pulls the trigger," he retorted smugly, the sly grin on his features almost not visible. Riddle, once again, looked strangely satisfied, which gave her the feeling of being in a tutorial rather than an MI6 consultation.

"And we don't have any lead to determine the secondary driving force behind it?" For a split second she kept her hopes up, but the man shook his head slowly. He leaned further towards her, and grabbed the bright yellow post-it notepad, which brought an exquisite scent into Hermione's nose. His aftershave mingled with something else this time; the scent of a fresh and dewy cleaning agent that pleasantly tingled her nose and set itself in the back of her mind. It was delicious.

"Not if the torso is missing. With the aid of the body and the head together I could have determined what kind of force was needed to separate both body parts. With neither, the body, nor the murder weapon, we don't have all the data to put into our equation." His fingers touched hers briefly, as he withdrew the pen from her hand, and he started to draw and write an equation on the post-it notepad to explain his words. When he finished it, he pulled the note off and gave it back to her along with the pen, before he concluded his theory, "Different from the guillotine, where the weight of the body didn't matter."

Hermione took a look at the post-it in her hand.

_F=m*a_

She stuck it neatly in her notebook and twirled the pen between her fingers; it was still warm. "Well, if I remember it correctly, the guillotine wasn't always reliable enough to kill a person with the first blow either. Not to mention that I doubt that it'd have clean edges on the wounds," she said, and lifted her gaze back to Riddle's pale grey eyes.

A dark chuckle left his lips and she spotted a row of perfect, white teeth. He seemed to think for a moment, then he said, perhaps a tad too enthusiastically, "Did you know that French doctors made some macabre experiments during the French Revolution? They took recently severed guillotined heads - which were a dime a dozen during that time - and exposed them to light and sound stimuli to document any possible reactions."

"What did they learn from it?"

The tension in the small office - better, storeroom - was thick and overwhelming, almost touchable by now, and she felt her pulse speed up whenever Riddle's dilated pupils wandered from her eyes to her neck, or worse, to her lips. She wet them in a ludicrous attempt to cool down the heat that had risen in her cheeks. When he finally spoke again, his voice was a dark rumble, seductive almost.

"What do you think, Miss Granger?"

She cleared her throat twice before dwelling on a reasonable response. She had read statements by several persons who had spoken of Riddle's impossible allure, an especially profound effect he had on anyone who dared to come too close to him. Like a fatal attraction, she thought. She felt almost like a spider caught in his web; but she wasn't ready to be the fly.

"I think modern medicine has proven to us that a head can't survive without its body," she finally replied, and the answer must have been good enough because he nodded once, thoughtfully, and not as sharply as before, and leaned back again.

" True."

He observed the way she tapped the clasp against the files on her lap for some seconds, before he spoke again, "You can say decapitations run like a golden thread through art and literature alike. Caravaggio, Luini, Gyula - they all painted Salome with Saint John's head. Caravaggio also painted Judith Slaying Holofernes."

"Gentileschi drew that too."

"Gentileschi had a whole other perspective of the female nature and power balance which she used in her work," he countered immediately, and even though the tension between them was still palpable, he refrained from misusing it again.

Hermione's eyebrows lifted, surprised.

_He thinks women are equal to men; gender doesn't matter __to __him. That's rare, coming from someone in his field of work, with so many privileges. _

"I think we should keep that topic for another time. Is there anything else you want me to look at today?" Riddle added nonchalantly, and far more conversationally than a few minutes ago. She noted that his posture had completely changed too; his legs were no longer crossed anymore, his attitude still dominating, yet intrigued too.

Remus' case came to her mind and she could feel the weight of its presence in her bag, but the papers hadn't been approved for further investigations yet. She shook her head and put the cap on the pen. "No. That's about all for now."

Out of the corner of her eyes, she observed how he took the reading glasses off his perfect, straight nose to put them back on the table. She arranged the files neatly again, before replacing them in her bag, and when she closed the notebook in her lap, her eyes fell on the outline of her leather wristwatch; it was almost 12:30 p.m.

The funeral must be long over, and a quick glance at her silenced phone showed new messages from several people - _Draco, Harry, Draco, her mother. _"Wow, I didn't notice how quickly the time went by," she murmured, and threw the notebook, along with the pen, in her bag, hastily. "Thank you for your time, Doctor Riddle. This will be all."

"I'll give you my mobile number," he said, and reached over her head into a hidden clothes rack, to pull a shining, silver étui out of his coat. It had a nice embossing on the top, some kind of emblem, with a snake that bit itself in the tail. He flipped it open with his index finger and revealed a set of high quality business cards. He handed her one.

"Should there be any new questions don't be afraid to contact me again."

"You already helped me along," Hermione murmured, when she took the card from his long fingers. The paper was heavy and thick, of a creamy ivory color, while his name stood out in black. It was minimalistic, yet mirrored him perfectly. She smiled and put the card into a special pocket on her bag, so it wouldn't fold or crease. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Doctor."

They shook hands once more, and the warmth of his skin felt strangely comforting.

"The pleasure was all mine," Riddle said, letting go of her hand. He accompanied her to the door that lead back into the hallways of the basement, and he opened them chivalrously, to let her pass. For a second he remained at the door and surveyed her thoughtfully. His voice was strangely strained, almost a bit excited, when he added as a final statement, "Let's hope this time you'll be one step ahead of him, Special Agent Granger."

A brief pause hung between them as Hermione left the room. She turned around once more to give him an encouraging smile, which was meant more for herself than the man before her. "We'll see. Have a nice day."

Hermione turned around and proceeded along the corridor, with hastening paces. Her footsteps reverberated, hollow and noisy, from the walls. An uncomfortable chill gnawed at the back of her neck, almost as if someone was observing her.

She hadn't heard the door closing behind her. Neither did she dare to turn around and check.

The pen, however, rested warm and intrusive in her bag.

* * *

**ooo**

_Did you know that a body without a head can at least operate its motor skills for some seconds? _

_It is scientifically proven that a large __amount __of decapitated people have blood deep in their respiratory tracts, which __is __theoretically impossible, since the separation between head and body cuts any communication between the respiratory center in the brain and the remaining peripheral nervous system. Theoretically, any breathing activity should stop abruptly, as soon as the head is cut off. However, during autopsies of decapitated people we often find blood in the respiratory tracts, that continues to the pulmonary alveoli - __for which a functioning brain is actually required._

_Hence__, it's ultimately proven, that even victims which are killed __by __a train __running __over them and __beheading __them, are actually, for __a split __second, still alive. Almost like chicken, when you decapitate them and their nervous system still works. They start to twitch and some of them even run without a head through the streets until they finally collapse from exhaustion._

_Hm, interesting._

_Do you think __Gregorovitch __twitched too?_


	6. V

**Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.**

**Albert Einstein**

* * *

**ooo**

* * *

_Humans._

_Mammal. Primate. Homo Sapiens._

_Humans are lower animals, a non-relevant species that lives by convincing themselves that they are some higher form of existence. No other species thrives on a sense of superiority alone, as does the human being. _

_Stuffing food in their mouths during lunch hour.  
__Breaking bones and backs to provide a decent living for their families.  
__Satisfying their partner in bed so they won't cheat on them.  
__Wake up. Work. Get home. Wash. Sleep._

_Humans are in a frenzy. Like marionettes, they're trying to reach a higher level in their lives.  
__No one is truly satisfied with what they were born with.  
__It's a myth.  
__Humans always crave to be more.  
__It's simply their nature._

_Humans need. Humans crave. Humans ruin. _

_And so the cycle continues.  
_

* * *

**ooo**

* * *

**Three Broomsticks Nightclub  
****103 Gaunt Street, London SE1 6DP  
****Friday, 22. August, 5:23 p.m.  
**_33 days until the next murder_

"Listen, I've already told everything I remember to your colleagues the last three times they asked me."

The metallic clatter of the tray was barely audible over the deafening vibrations of rhythmic drums that beat like a 90s house song in the background of the nightclub. Parvati Patil looked tired, Hermione noticed, as the girl pushed a strand of blue-dyed hair behind her ear. Her dry skin was accentuated by a fine layer of makeup on her dark brown skin, while slightly violet circles were visible under her eyes; not even the thick layer of concealer could cover them. With a hand, the girl wiped over her sweat-covered skin.

The Three Broomsticks would open in a few hours; the DJ was already setting up his equipment, and Hermione could see the manager of the nightclub running around with his phone glued to his ear. The club wasn't exactly exclusive, but the last few months had been good for business. People talk.

"Miss Patil, please be assured that we wouldn't ask these questions if they weren't absolutely necessary."

Parvati Patil was a skinny, Indian girl, who looked far younger than she really was; their information said twenty-six, but Hermione felt certain that she was barely of age. A little silver nose ring pierced her nose, and the girl brushed her knuckles against it each time a new question was raised, either by Hermione or Draco.

_She's nervous._

The internal turmoil was visible on the girl's face while she was busy wiping the bar counter with an old, white rag. She gripped it harder than needed. Again, the brush against the nose ring.

_Fear? Shame?_

"Miss Patil, you were the last person who saw Lavender before she encountered her killer. Please, help me close this case." Softly, Hermione laid her hand on Parvati's and stilled her wiping movements.

Parvati froze. She studied Hermione with apprehension and narrowed her dark brown eyes to slits. They stared at each other for a while; Parvati growing calmer, Hermione growing more impatient. A nagging voice in her head reminded the Agent constantly that lives were at stake here – it was hard to fake composure when you had such a burden on your shoulders.

The girl behind the counter, however, seemed to finally grasp the urgency of Hermione's tone. Parvati sighed and nodded weakly, before chucking the old rag with an easy throw under the counter. She rounded the bar and sat down on one of the bar stools. Nervously, she wet her lips twice. "All right, all right. I'll try my best but… it's so long ago, I don't really know how I can be of assistance. I barely remember anything."

Blurred and hazy shadows in different neon colors were cast on Parvati's face, as someone adjusted the spotlights. Eyes wide, arms crossed, chin down; she looked scared.

_Alarmed. Frightened. _

A second later it passed, and the tinted ceiling lights dipped the room in a soft, yellow glow again.

"Just tell us what you know," Hermione said cautiously, and took her notebook out of her pocket. She searched for a pen, and grabbed a sleek, silver one that stopped her dead in her tracks. Slowly she pulled it out and watched with growing horror as the recognition sunk in. On its front, in swirling, curved letters, was Dr. Riddle's name.

_Oh God. I stole his pen. _

"We had an appointment," Parvati started hesitantly. Hermione grabbed another pen and flipped to an empty page in her notebook. She started writing.

"You know, we didn't have a lot of contact in the months before– before–" The girl made a vague gesture in the air.

"Before she died?" said Draco, helpfully.

Parvati took a deep breath and swallowed. Another weak nod. "Yeah." She wet her lips again and continued. "She was always busy. Law school, her internship. We've known each other since third grade. Been friends ever since. So when she called me the day before- and said she felt lonely, I just – I thought it'd be good for her to–" Parvati's eyes glistened with tears; blurring her vision. She furiously brushed them away.

_No, she's not annoyed. She feels guilty._

"Miss Patil–" Hermione started, but Parvati raised a hand and stopped her mid-sentence. The girl swallowed and took another breath.

"I know what you want to say Agent Granger. I've received all the pity and heard the insincere words of comfort already. Save it." She flexed both hands over her thighs, which were clad in black skinny jeans. "I told her I was free at 11 p.m. Lavender showed up around 9 p.m and asked me to make her a Bloody Mary. She ordered a second one right after and went to the dance floor. I lost sight of her shortly after."

"How many people were here that night?" Draco asked.

"I don't know," Parvati replied, with a sigh. "Around 300 maybe. We had a lot less traffic then than nowadays, but 200 at least."

"And you haven't seen her again?" Hermione asked, as she wrote the times down in her notebook, marvelling at how they matched the ones in the case folders. Even though they were similar she noted them down, since she liked to have her own notes ready at hand, too.

"She came back to the bar at around 10. She said she'd met someone and well... she asked if I'd mind delaying our plans to the next day. I said that I wouldn't and that she should go and have fun. She was so overworked that I thought it'd be good for her to just let it go for a while, you know?"

"Did she say anything about who she had met?"

Parvati thought about it, but shook her head slowly – then suddenly she halted mid-movement, as if she had just remembered something.

"What is it?"

"N-Nothing. Just…" Another brush against the nose. "She didn't say his name or where they wanted to go, which was pretty obvious at that point, you know? But… she said something really strange."

Hermione looked up. "What was it?"

Rattled, the girl started to fidget with a yellow elastic bracelet around her thin wrist; she pulled at it, and let it snap back against her skin several times, until it looked raw, red and swollen.

_The nervosity increases._

"His eyes." A flick of a wet tongue over her dry cushions. "She mentioned his eyes. She said they were– wait, what did she say? _Piercing._ Yeah, she said piercing. As if his eyes alone could kill."

_A rather macabre metaphor in light of her death._

Wordlessly, Hermione jotted the piece of information down in her notebook.

"Anything else? Colour perhaps?" Draco was flexing his hand rhythmically beside her. Parvati shook her head in defeat once more. Suddenly, the girl looked more exhausted than ever. Her dark skin had taken on a strange ashen colour, and her eyes were still red and glazed from withholding tears. There was nothing more to press the girl with, besides...

Hermione fished a couple of pictures out of her pocket. "Just one more question, Parvati." The girl took the pictures carefully out of Hermione's grasp, with cold and sweaty hands. Her nails were brittle and had been bitten here and there. "Take a look at these pictures. Is there anyone here that you can recognise?"

Patil looked at the pictures diligently, but then she passed them back over to Hermione. Not a flicker of recognition had crossed her face.

"I'm sorry. I don't know them."

_These people are nobodies to her._

"All right." With a crestfallen sigh, Hermione took the pictures back and squirreled them away. Draco gave her a sideways look, but didn't say anything further.

Parvati cleared her throat. "Is that all? The club will open up in an hour and I still have a lot to do until then." The girl on the bar stool looked incredibly small. By then, her exhaustion was almost palpable.

Hermione nodded and tried to muster up an encouraging smile. "Yes Ms. Patil. Thank you for your cooperation." Parvati was up and behind the counter before anyone could have said another word.

_It must be hard to blame yourself._

Draco was the first to turn around and leave the obscure building. Hermione followed close behind.

They were both greeted by fresh air and bright sunlight as they left the world of the Three Broomsticks behind them. Draco inhaled deeply and pushed all the air out of his lungs with a single breath again. He turned around, fixing his gaze on her face; they shimmered warm and golden in the reflecting sunlight, but the cool shade of icy-grey that lingered beyond, gave them a tainted, almost muggy look. Nevertheless, they were still beautiful.

"So, _piercing_ eyes, huh?"

"Well," Hermione started, and took a black, satin, elastic band out of her pocket to pin her hair up into a complicated looking knot. "Psychopaths often make very intense eye contact with their chosen victims. Depending on the gender, preferences or even eye color, people may have a strong feeling of attraction towards a psychopath. Victims often report these kind of looks resemble that of a predator about to consume their prey – 'reptilian gaze', 'laser beam stare' and the infamous 'piercing' eyes are just a few names for this phenomenon."

"So let me guess, women often confuse this gaze with sexuality and find it attractive."

"Just for the record, men are affected by it as well."

"Yeah," Draco snorted, and pushed a pair of silver Ray Ban aviators up his aristocratic nose. "Still creepy."

"Well, many films depict seductive yet immoral creatures as having a very strong, psychopathic stare. Psychopaths are parasitic after all – almost like vampires."

They reached their separate cars and Draco stopped right beside Hermione, his face showing disbelief. "So what, you're telling me that Edward Cullen was a psychopath now?"

For the first time, in what felt like forever, Hermione felt the weight of the dead lifting from her shoulders. She threw her head back, exposing her bare throat, and laughed.

The soft smile playing on Draco's lips, was entirely worth it.

* * *

**Hepzibah Smith's old flat  
****61 Twickenham Rd, Isleworth, Greater London TW7 6AR  
****Saturday, 23. August, 11:40 a.m.  
**_32 days until the next murder_

At first glance, Isleworth might look like any other suburb of London. The truth however, was revealed once you saw past the manicured lawns and white, picket fences. At the far end of the town, Twickenham Road had plenty of older brick houses; rusty buildings crammed together, without the usual suburban flair. Moss broke through from between the concrete slabs and not even the warm August sun could brighten up the cold neighbourhood.

Hermione exited her car and closed the old door with enough force that the whole vehicle shook. A second round of interrogations of Lavender's parents and the staff of the law firm hadn't brought forth any new clues. In fact, Hermione hadn't believed for a second that they'd just randomly stumble across some new evidence. The officers working on this case were professionals, and had years of expertise on their side. But sometimes, identifying with the victims and reconstructing their lives could help a profiler get a better picture about the victims – and the killers too.

Hepzibah Smith had lived a lonely life in Isleworth. She had rented the third flat on the right side, and shared the block of flats with five other families. Unfortunately, none of the usual tenants, besides the janitor, were still living in the House of Hell, as people had started to call it – even though she hadn't been killed in the house. People talked fast nowadays and the police were not always able to withhold necessary information. Hepzibah's old flat had a new tenant by now – as had Lavender's. This aggravated the situation of course.

Shouldering her bag with one hand and typing on her iPhone with the other, the girl stepped onto the tiny, dirty, overgrown path that lead to the house.

_You're sure you don't need me?  
_**-DM**

_I can handle this Malfoy. Is the weekly Malfoy family dinner getting out of control?  
_**-HG**

_You should send me words of encouragement so I don't end up murdering someone.  
_**-DM**

_Just remember there's no Netflix in prison.  
_**-HG**

Smiling, she put the phone away and knocked on the janitor's door. The door opened just an inch and an old, wrinkled eye stared suspiciously at her, from within.

"Mr Filch?" Hermione asked, and took her police badge out of her back pocket. "I'm Special Agent Hermione Granger from the MI6. May I come in and ask you some questions, sir?"

The pale eye widened considerably, but he shut the door. Hermione could hear the metallic clatter of a door lock, before Filch fully opened the door again.

Argus Filch, as Hermione knew from the records, was a strange creature. Tall, but bent over, he was almost at eye level with Hermione; his curved back gave the old man a crow-like appearance. His hair hung down in filthy, grey clumps; almost thin enough to look through. Spots and wrinkles were visible on his skin. He had prominent eye bags and his dark circles were unusually violet; the white of his eyes as yellow as the couple of teeth he still had left. He didn't move an inch to let her in, but instead just stood there, looking at her like the reincarnation of an Irish gnome. Hermione sighed.

"Mr. Filch, I want to talk to you about Hepzibah Smith–"

"Smith you say? Never liked her. But at least she had been a good tenant; kept the staircase clean and always knew the dates for the litter service. No loud music, no special visitors at night. Not like Peeves, this little punk who lives in her flat now. What a waste." The man had an Irish accent and he slurred the words, while talking in such a high-pitched voice, that it became difficult for Hermione to follow him. As if to prove a point he jerked his head up towards the staircase and clicked his tongue. "The scum doesn't even pay his rent on time, can't you do anything against that, officer?"

"Special Agent, sir." Hermione said, with a sigh. Perhaps Draco had been right that nothing good would happen here. "And I'm afraid that's not my division."

"Ah, yeah you wanna know about Smith, the kidnapper huh? I told your colleagues already, everything I knew."

_Kidnapping? There had been no remark about a kidnapping – not in the entire record._

Filch snorted snarkily, but stayed silent. A grey-striped cat appeared between his legs and the man picked her up in his arms with the greatest care Hermione had ever witnessed. "Poor Mrs. Norris here had to endure half a day in Smith's flat before daddy found her - yes, my sweet, daddy found you, didn't he?" His hand was constantly busy fondling the cat's fur. The animal thanked his efforts by rolling on her back and rubbing her head along his arm.

_Great. I'm talking to a crank. This will lead to nothing._

Forcing an investigation under these circumstances would lead to false information from the victims, and perhaps even to false facts in the murder profile. Hermione couldn't risk that – not every piece of information obtained could help in an investigation. Sometimes, it was better to stick to the simple facts. Visiting old neighbours or family members could help to create a better profile, but that did not always help the case.

And well, Filch was obviously one of _those_ kinds of neighbours, ones that lived to snoop and gossip about you as soon as they had the chance. Great.

"Mr Filch," Hermione interrupted his heart-breaking monologue about the kidnapping of Mrs. Norris. "I'm sorry, sir, but could you have a look at these pictures, please. Have you seen any of these faces around perhaps?" Not giving him the chance to protest – or worse continuing his kidnapping-story – Hermione pressed the same pictures into his hands that she had given to Parvati before.

They were simple photos, about three inches high – enlarged passport photographs of all the victims, including Remus. For a profiler, pictures were important, to form a bond with the victim. To connect. Hermione liked to know about the wrinkles and creases on someone's face – as well as their habits or quirks. Understanding your victims was usually the first step in understanding the killer. Perhaps some relative would see a connection to one of the victims. It would be a start, at least.

Filch's eyes darted over the pictures, not really paying attention to the details. He dismissed everything with a quick glance and pulled back his shoulders, pressing Mrs. Norris to his thin chest in the process. The cat mewed, satisfied.

"Never seen them around here. Are these the suspects?"

"No." She put the pictures away and her badge too. "These are the other victims." That silenced the man, even if it was just for a while. There was no pity in his pale eyes.

_What a sad world._

"I'll take my leave of you now, Mr. Filch. Sorry for taking your time." Argus Filch had had nothing to offer. Malfoy had been right, this was a complete waste of time. She turned around to leave when–

"Will you do anything about the kidnapping now?"

Hermione stopped dead in her tracks and looked slowly up again, where the man was still leaning against the doorframe, the cat tightly held in his hands. Hesitantly, she said, "Mr Filch, Ms. Smith is already dead. There's nothing I can do about … the kidnapping."

"But someone needs to be punished." The man watched her eerily, his pale eyes even more wild in the half shadows of the staircase.

_He can't be serious?_

Hermione sighed deeply and rubbed her face. This was really not what she had signed up for when she started studying criminology.

* * *

**London Metropolitan University  
****166-220 Holloway Road, London N7 8DB  
****Monday, 25. August, 9:18 a.m.  
**_30 days until the next murder_

Draco arrived twenty minutes later than the scheduled time; she could hear the engine of his car as soon as he rounded the corner. The car was a sleek, black monster with a wide-mouthed lower bumper, smoke-patterned rims, white stripes like a racecar, and other minor tweaks – as pretentious as its owner. Recaro bucket seats, wrapped in an expensive material, held Malfoy in between; he stopped the car right in front of her in the no-parking zone.

_An Aston Martin. Of course._

"You're late."

It was the first thing Hermione threw at him, once he finally stepped out of the car. Draco didn't bother with her harsh tone, but instead closed the car with a button on his keys. Slipping into his leather jacket, he came to a halt besides Hermione, who was still leaning against the dusty bonnet of her Volkswagen Rabbit.

"Morning, sunshine. I'm still amazed your rust bucket made it through all these years." He flashed her a row of perfect, white teeth – probably blanched. "Isn't the job paying you enough to get a decent car at least?"

"Perhaps, I just don't see the appeal of paying for designer things when the normal stuff does its job. Besides, the car still works fine–"

"You said so back in university too." He ignored her statement from before and jerked his head in the general direction of the London Metropolitan University. "Ready to go?"

Boy, was he grating on her nerves. Annoyed, she pushed herself off the car and made her way across the campus. She could hear his footsteps echoing in sync with her own on the gravel a second later. They didn't talk again until they reached Flitwick's office.

"Special Agents Granger and Malfoy," Draco said, as soon as the professor opened the door. He flipped his badge open, long enough for the professor to see the shiny, golden medal, before he put it back in the back pocket of his skinny jeans. "We have a few questions we would like to ask you."

Filius Flitwick eyed them both over the rim of his round glasses as he opened the door eagerly. He gestured enthusiastically with his unoccupied hand and waved them in. "Ah, yes, we spoke on the phone, didn't we? Please come in, my time is precious and I don't want to waste a single minute." He didn't even wait for their answers, but turned around and marched right back into the room. Draco shrugged beside her, and closed the door once they had entered.

Flitwick was a small man; a thin, brown patch of hair laid flat on his head, and covered sparsely the growing baldness that showed on the back of his head. A rather impressive straight nose held his glasses over dark brown eyes, while the man shuffled books and papers energetically in his dark leather satchel.

"I knew you'd return sooner or later– not that your colleagues haven't done a great job already, but since his office is still closed for further investigations I figured I haven't seen the last of you. Nice to see you again Mr. Malfoy – you look good, been on a holiday recently?"

It was startling to hear the man talk with such rapidity in such a short period of time, without stumbling over the words. Draco made a weak affirmative noise from the side, but the man was already talking again, all the while moving books around his desk.

"But lets get back to Gregorovitch - glorious, brilliant Gregorovitch - do you know how many lessons I have had to cover now that he's gone? This university has been understaffed for a few years, and God forbid if we talk about hiring another teacher; the administration would rather spend more money on the useless netball team than use it for another tutor. When the director asked who would take on Gregorovitch's lessons I was the only one who dared to give it a try – and I haven't even studied chemistry. How sad is this?"

_Sarcasm has it hard on him, huh?_

Hermione blinked, confused. Then, she asked incredulously, her voice a whole octave higher than usual, "Wait, you haven't even studied chemistry?"

"Of course not, I studied history and linguistics. But I had perfect chemistry grades during high school. And I have faith in myself that I can do it. Besides, the students need me now. More than ever."

_Unbelievable._

During your short life span, you always meet a whole range of different people. Hermione knew this all too well. As a profiler you were trained to see the quirks and edges of a person. To learn their matters, their ways, their thinking patterns. To study them. But one thing Hermione was absolutely sure of: she had never met a person as utterly self-centered as Filius Flitwick. Sadly, the man thought himself to be some kind of saint; scientists called this kind of behaviour covert narcissism. Covert narcissists are very good at pretending. They pretend in order to get what they want, be it power, success, money, fame – they are the proverbial wolf in sheep's clothing.

_Typical aggressive behavior – no, annoyance. Gregorovitch was popular amongst the students and a rather admired colleague – Flitwick seems to hold a grudge. But would he be capable of killing Gregorovitch?_

The little man descended from a wooden stool and battered the dust off his knees. Then, he continued right away. "You shouldn't waste your time with the Voldemort cases, I'm sure he wasn't a victim of this lunatic. I knew that something would happen sooner or later; keep coming drunk to your lessons and–"

"Why do you think that?" Hermione interrupted the man mid-sentence, and got a rather nasty glance from the small man in return.

"Well I didn't want to say anything, but you leave me with no choice. I see things Ms. Granger." Flitwick rolled his eyes as he approached her, until the peaks of his polished shows nearly brushed Hermione's. "Mykew Gregorovitch was not just a simple tutor. He was involved with the Bratva."

Three things happened simultaneously after this statement: Hermione glanced dumbly towards her partner, Draco beside her just rubbed his face in annoyance and Flitwick in front of her still nodded to himself as if he had said something momentous. Annoyed, she bit back a comment and let a long, noisy breath out of her nose.

_Lord give me patience or an untraceable gun._

* * *

**London Metropolitan University  
****166-220 Holloway Road, London N7 8DB  
****Monday, 25. August, 10:44 a.m.  
**_30 days until the next murder_

"I've never seen them I'm afraid." The boy handed the pictures back to Hermione. He was honest, that much could she tell, but she felt like he was still keeping something from her. She remembered his name from one of the records.

_Oliver Wood. He plays netball, goal he saw Gregorovitch on the day of his disappearance. Said he was throwing some balls with a friend on the courtyard then. Height and build could match, but the boy's far too mediocre and not bright enough to kill Gregorovitch. _

"Okay," Hermione said, with a sigh, and added with a small smile, "Thanks for helping me out Mr. Wood. Have a nice day."

She was already turning around when the boy stopped her with a hand on her elbow.

"Ms. Granger?"

Hesitantly, he retracted his hand and scratched at his clean-shaven nape. Reluctance reflected in his stance. The boy nibbled at his lips. Granted, he looked rather posh, clothed in designer jeans and a white Yves Saint Laurent polo shirt, his skin a flawless mask that screamed of upper society, with a golden - no, honey brown - choirboy hairdo.

"My mother always says you shouldn't speak bad of the dead–"

_You don't say. _

"–but well, you know, people talk." Oliver stopped and wet his lips; his hand was still busy at his nape, scratching nervously. "Some said that Gregorovitch would give you _special treatment_ if he liked you."

_This boy is no threat. This boy is a goody two-shoes._

"Special treatment?"

"Yeah." Quickly, he glanced around, as if to make sure no one was paying attention to them, before he continued, "Well I won't say any names but– he was giving out dope."

Hermione widened her eyes in surprise.

There were cracks here. She just had to make sure she found them.

* * *

**London Metropolitan University, Gregorovitch's office  
****166-220 Holloway Road, London N7 8DB  
****Monday, 25. August, 11:29 a.m.  
**_30 days until the next murder_

"Wood was right." Hermione pointed to a perfect row of plants which stood on the windowsill of Gregorovitch's office, standing together like an army of dope. "He really did have cannabis."

Draco snorted and didn't even look up from his place at the bookshelf, where he was pulling out book after book to flip through. "I doubt any one of the students will confess that their teacher drugged them."

Hermione hummed in agreement, then turned around and focused on Gregorovitch's old desk.

The room was sticky and muggy – no one had aired it in the last month. A trace of the pungent odour of moss was lingering in the air, alongside the typical, rotten smell of something that was dead. Gregorovitch's study was neither large nor comfortable – it gave the feeling of something ancient and old. Dark, walnut wood all around made the already small room seem something even smaller. Books and papers were scattered all over the place, and a couple of dirty cups were already stuck to the wooden surfaces of the table.

_What a mess. _

Draco sat down on an old, ragged leather couch that presided over the corner, and threw a hideous tartan Oxford over the armrest.

_Gregorovitch's?_

"Were there more clothes around when you were around the first time?"

"Yeah, I think another shirt and a couple of ties. The forensics took them to see if the DNA matches the one from the head."

"So he probably slept here."

"Brilliant deduction, Granger." Draco drawled, and rolled his eyes visibly, his lips curving into a taunting smile. "I see the Commonwealth hired you for your amazing powers of observation and keen attention to details. Perhaps you should read the records once more, I pointed this out already."

"Oh fuck you, Draco." Hermione muttered and pushed, annoyed, a wild caramel brown lock behind her ear; it didn't stay there, and sailed down her cheek again. She hadn't meant to attack him this bluntly, but god, did he grate on her nerves sometimes. He didn't need to remind her about his intelligence. She knew that all too well.

Draco wit-is-my-middle-name Malfoy smirked at her from the other side of the room. He watched her from beneath his half-lidded bedroom eyes, and lowered his voice deliberately a whole octave. "Volunteering?"

A sudden deep, peachy blush crept onto her cheeks and coloured her creamy skin. She was momentarily furious and lashed back, both hands pressing down on the cool wood of Gregorovitch's desk. "Instead of throwing around half-hearted allusions you should make yourself useful and search for something that will help move the case forward." With a sharp twirl, her turned around and started to go through the drawers, paying no attention to the man on the other side of the room. She was furious and her anger clouded her mind.

_About time to calm down._

Draco eventually got up and searched through the rest of the books and shelves. She could feel his grin on the nape of her neck. She ignored it.

They searched in silence for a while. Silence was fine with her. Her mind was already racing – not just because of Wood's remark, but because she needed to focus to project herself into Gregorovitch's thoughts.

Hermione was already on the last drawer and was just about to close it, when she saw an unusual indentation, not bigger than a knife point, between the bottom and the front of the drawer.

_Could it be...?_

Carefully, she took the sleek, silver letter opener from the desk and pushed it into the aperture. A single, strong push was enough, and the thin sheet of wood indulged her. Hidden under it was a second compartment with different kinds of letters; medicine bills, hospital bills, medical examination records.

"Draco, look." She called him over, as she flipped through the pages. He stood behind her and read the letters over her shoulder.

"So, Gregorovitch was sick."

Hermione shook her head and said impatiently, "No, not just sick. He was seriously ill."

_Dihydroergotamine. Triptans. Patient requires nerve blocking anesthetics and pure Oxygen inhalations– _

"Cluster headaches," she whispered slowly, her voice barely audible in the room. Draco took the papers out of her hands and flipped through them himself, before he handed them back with a sharp nod.

"Yeah. Judging by the dosages, they were getting worse in the last six months."

Hermione nodded hesitantly and packed the papers away. "It explains the cannabis–"

"But?"

But something felt off. Something itched her; a nagging suspicion, that something still lingered under the surface. Something she hadn't cracked yet. She wet her lips and started to chew the chapped cushion of her lower lip.

"–but it could also change the profile. Has any other victim been sick?"

Draco narrowed his eyes but seemed to catch onto her trail of thought pretty fast because the pale grey of his irises widened a moment later. "I don't think so. Neither the forensics nor we have found anything."

"We should still check it some other time."

_Because if the illness is important to the killer, it means he kills people who are already pretty much dead. This would make him some kind of Angel of Death, which narrows down the profile quite a bit. The medical experience would speak for him once again._

"Kind of ironic how he was killed, don't you think so?"

Hermione snorted. "Ironic or intended."

_Beheading: how ironic. Yeah, Voldemort does seem like the type to take pleasure in that._

"Did you know," Draco started again, leaning his long body against the desk, "that beheadings were actually reserved for those from high society? At least after the guillotine had been invented. Having a fast and nearly painless death was what the rich people wanted for themselves. Thieves and murderers were usually killed in a far more painful way."

This peaked Hermione's interest. "So you think he used a guillotine? I'll have to pass that. I'll take my chances with the steel rope."

"Steel rope?"

"Yes." The girl raised her nose triumphantly in the air and smiled deviantly. "A steel rope would explain the clean cuts."

"Oh?" Amused, Draco crossed his arms over his chest and flashed his pearly whites at Hermione. The grin spread wider across his face, and he tilted his chin upwards. "By all means, please explain why you think so."

Something was off about the way he said it, as if he knew more than Hermione could think of. It ticked her off and challenged her inner know-it-all.

"For one, the head was most likely dissevered in one blow. But no blade is sharp enough to make such a clean cut without leaving behind little edgings of skin – not even a guillotine. I consulted a specialist on that subject–"

"You consulted a specialist? Who?"

"Doctor T. M. Riddle. He's pre-eminent in the field of human decay and–" But Hermione couldn't finish her sentence because Draco had already rolled his eyes in disgust, and snorted in a way that showed his contempt. His whole posture shifted from nonchalant to tense in under five seconds.

"Riddle doesn't even live up to his reputation."

"_Doctor_ Riddle. And I don't think you're in the position to judge someone like him, Draco." She pushed a single brown curl behind her ear, the one that always slipped free. Her tone was defensive – belligerent – but by all means, she couldn't hold it back anymore. Who was Draco to judge?

Draco, however, was fairly unimpressed and appeared more annoyed than ever. Hermione couldn't quite understand where this sudden anger and hate was coming from, but it radiated in waves from the blond. He was pissed.

"Riddle's a farce, Hermione. You, as a profiler, should have noticed it." Draco fixed his eyes on her, and clicked his tongue.

"You don't even know him!" Voice jarring, her exclamation echoed loudly in the stuffy, abandoned room. Draco observed the way her shoulders rose and her breath hitched from the sudden rage that flared up in her; her face brightened up to a delicate, dark red and he suppressed the urge to wrap his long, slender fingers around her chin and cheeks and push her dainty lips up to meet his. He blinked.

With a dismissive wave of his hand he turned around, throwing the papers in his hand on the desk. All Hermione could see, was his leather-clad back that disappeared behind the door, as soon as it closed. As the minutes passed, she finally took a deep breath and rubbed her hands over her tired eyes, before she started to put Gregorovitch's letters in special evidence bags, that she kept in her own backpack for such occasions.

The scent of Draco's far too expensive aftershave, still clung to the inside of her nostrils, long after he was gone.

* * *

**Diggory House  
****24 Saltwell Park, Kingswood Hull HU7 3HW  
****Wednesday, 24. August, 2:01 p.m.  
**_28 days until the next murder_

They were sitting pressed close together on a monstrous double couch, that was coated in a creamy, pastel, cotton cover to protect the fabric from possible dirt and dust. Across from them Mrs. Diggory was sobbing uncontrollably in her already wet handkerchief, while Mr. Diggory held her tiny hand between his own. They were both still devastated about the death of their only son.

Meeting relatives always made it hard for a profiler to keep their balance and distance from a case. You need to keep a cool head once you are faced with the emotions of people who loved the dead ones – your own personal emotions should never taint the act of gathering evidence and facts to complete your profile. On that account, Hermione tried to suppress any feelings that cropped up inside of her at the sight of Diggory's parents.

Somewhere, an old grandfather clock chimed two o'clock.

"I don't want to interrupt you, Mrs. Diggory," Hermione started hesitantly, observing the way the woman pushed another plate of citrus scones over towards where Hermione and Draco were sitting, "but we really need to have a look at Cedric's room now." Draco beside her stilled in his movements, as he leaned to grab another biscuit, and watched her with an expression of confusion and amazement.

_Perhaps he thinks I'm impolite. Well, I don't care._

If you find the cracks in something, you need to push until it breaks. If you can't find any cracks, keep searching. The Diggorys didn't present any cracks to push into right now. Hermione needed to see Cedric's room.

Mrs. Diggory pursed her lips and straightened her back. The incredibly complex knot on the top of her head looked flawless and severe, with not a single hair sticking out of it. Age had clearly nothing on the woman's face, who still looked like she was in her mid-thirties. Mr. Diggory looked far older by now, with a flat, lifeless patch of grey hair on his head. Both of them were still clothed in black, their grief palpable in the thick air around them.

"Of course. Please follow me." Mr. Diggory rose from his place and accompanied both of them up to Cedric's room on the second floor. There was a strange tension between them, and Hermione was glad once the man took his leave, and she could close the door behind him. Once inside Cedric's room, she pressed herself against his door and took a single, deep breath.

The air in the room was neither stuffy, nor did it smell of the dead like Gregorovitch's study did. In fact, Cedric's room looked, surprisingly, completely the same as it did in the pictures in his case file.

_They've made a shrine out of it. Parents often tend to do this once their only child dies._

A book about sports medicine laid properly beside the keyboard of his iMac. Hermione flipped through the post-its that flooded out of it, but nothing special was to be seen.

"The forensics confirmed the use of a combustive agent when they analysed the debris from the blaze with a gas chromatograph."

"A what?" With a thud she closed the thick tome in her hands and turned around to face Draco, who was in the middle of checking out Cedric's drawers.

He looked up once he felt her gaze tingling the little strands of hair in his nape, and shrugged with both his shoulders, his tone nonchalant. "A gas chromatograph. Snape said they use it to separate different substances from each other. Different materials have different boiling points. A chromatograph can point them out."

"Huh." She watched Malfoy curiously, and observed how he turned back to the drawers again to keep looking for anything that would connect the cases. They had already asked the Diggory's before, but none of them had recognised any of the other victims. Draco, however, didn't bother too much with her, but busied himself with going through Cedric's mail once he had finished the drawers. Sometimes, the man was a mystery to her.

The room was spacious, but rather modestly furnished. There was nothing extraordinary or rebellious that personified Cedric; everything looked too clean, too perfect for his age. Nibbling at her lips, the girl examined the rest of the room with a rather clinical view. She ended up at the window, and watched an idle breeze rustling the reddish foliage of a nearby cherry tree.

_Wait, didn't Marcus Flint say something about a campus party? _

Flipping through the record to Flint's testimony, she read it twice.

_So if Cedric really wanted to go to the party, like Flint claimed, and his parents last saw him at 8 p.m, that means that he could have just climbed down the tree and made his exit that way, instead of going through the front door – a bit cliché, but still possible. This means that Cedric could have been abducted on his way to the party, too. _

"So this Flint guy," Hermione started, and turned around to face her partner again, who was still busy with Cedric's wardrobe, "was he honest during his testimony?"

Draco gave an affirmative grunt and murmured, "Yeah. Don't think he lied. After all, he was still on probation when Cedric was found."

"Cambridge takes convicts now?"

"He's not a student of Cambridge. He's just someone that Cedric knew."

_What? You don't say. Seems like Cedric wasn't the good old goody two-shoes mummy and daddy think he was._

"Why do you ask?"

With a jerk of her head, Hermione nodded to the tree that grazed Cedric's window. "Do you think he could have climbed that?"

Draco appeared beside her and took a long look at the tree, before leaning against the window frame and shrugging. "Who knows? Reminds me of an American teen movie, no?"

"Your obsession with movies never ceases to amaze me Malfoy."

Draco huffed and twisted his mouth into a pout, but didn't say anything else. Hermione took it as a win.

"I think we have everything we can get." Hermione completed the notes on her notebook, and put the pen, as well as the pad, back into her bag. Cocking her head to one side, she looked back at Draco, who was still leaning against the windowsill. "We need to start on Remus' case now. I think I have a good idea of the murder profile so far."

"So we should start with Potter and Black then."

"Yeah, and maybe Harry and Lily too," she mused, more to herself.

"You really think saint Potter can help you there?"

_Oh yeah, the feud. I almost forgot._

"We'll see. I can talk to him alone, if it bothers you so much. Considering your old history. Tell me, how many times did Harry beat you at tennis?"

"He didn't beat me. It was a draw."

"At tennis?"

A snide snort was the only thing that came her way from the man beside her, and she couldn't help the grin that spread over her features and lightened up her eyes. Her wild, untamed hair was still entwined in thick curls and they fell around her face in cascades.

Draco was mesmerised; he wet his lips unconsciously and raised his hand, almost, as if to brush her hair behind her ear – but Hermione turned around without noticing. Her phone started to chime with the ludicrous melody apple devices are set to use, and she took the call without a second glance, signaling him to wait for a second.

"Doctor Riddle, thank you for returning my call so soon. I have a question that–" The rest of her voice was drowned as soon as the door clicked shut.

Draco's hand, mid-air, stopped, and dropped, clenched, to his side. Riddle. Of course.

The blond detective sighed, deeply. "What do you do to me, Granger?"

He waited for another five minutes. Then, he followed her silently out of the room.

* * *

**ooo**

* * *

_Have you ever killed someone?  
__No?  
__You should try it.  
__Humans are so … fragile.  
__So extinguishable._

_How often have you thought about killing your annoying neighbour who always washes his car on a Sunday morning, 8 a.m?  
__How often have you thought about wringing your mother-in-law's neck when she nags about your habits again?  
__Your boss? Your siblings? Your spouse? Your children?_

_A lot of people feel the need, but they'd never do it.  
__They follow reason and so-called common sense like all the other human beings on the planet._

_They're weak.  
__They're boring._

_Can you imagine how satisfying it feels to see the light in someone's eyes die out?  
__To feel their last breath rattle under your fingers?  
__To see the terror in their widened irises when you're about to slash their guts?  
__Can you imagine it?_

_The human life is such a frailty in another human's hands. Killing is nothing more than a small gesture – a gift. The rush of something forbidden, the extreme sense of striving towards a larger goal, to make this world a less monotonous place - your hand should be able to make a difference. Do you understand?_

_Human lives are ephemeral.  
__Death is eternal.  
__You depart this life and leave a sea of nothingness behind._

_So, do you want to stay weak?_

_Or not?_


	7. VI

**I remained too much inside my head and ended up losing my mind.**

**Edgar Allan Poe**

**ooo**

_Everyone has three versions of themselves:  
__a public life, a private life and a secret life._

_Watch any kid and see how he acts with his friends at school.  
__Ask his mother what he's like at home.  
__Try to get her to believe the same kid robbed the corner store.  
__"Not my boy", she'll say and she's right.  
__Because her boy wouldn't do that.  
__But we are different things to different people, in different contexts._

_If someone is bad, people think they're evil.  
__If someone's evil, they're not a human being anymore.  
__They're a monster.  
__And evil monsters need to be destroyed to save the good humans._

_Unfortunately, keeping the world in mind, it's not as simple.  
__We don't fall into good or bad people._

_A rather harmless example for this pointless stereotypical thinking, is the black civil rights activist Martin Luther King.  
__He risked his life to ensure that future generations of black Americans wouldn't suffer the same cruel racial discrimination as he had.  
__Which of you would sacrifice your own life for such a noble goal?  
__He must have been a really good man._

_Or? _

_But did you know that he had a lot of affairs?  
__His wife knew about them, and suffered silently.  
__Isn't it "bad" to cheat on your partner, hurt her in the process, but still not stop?_

_Most people would reply in the affirmative to my question. _

_Is Martin Luther King a womaniser who hurt his wife deliberately and for whom sex was more important than her suffering?  
__Or is he a sparkling hero who sacrificed his life for a worthy cause?  
__Or is he both?  
__Does one, single, good deed balance out a bad deed?_

_Let me answer this question for you.  
__Martin Luther king was human.  
__Not good, not bad.  
__Just human.  
__A person with unique flaws and quirks._

_Now, you should ask yourself, if you're really as good a human being as you secretly believe yourself to be._

**ooo**

**MI6 Headquarters, James Potter's office  
****85 Albert Embankment, London SE1 7TP  
****Friday, 26. August, 9:32 a.m.  
**_26 days until the next murder_

_Can we meet?  
_**HP**

_Hermione?  
_**HP**

_I have work to do. The case needs my full attention and I still have to work on the profile.  
_**HG**

_I haven't seen you in months.  
_**HP**

_Hermione.  
_**HP**

Hermione's eyes darted over the slick surface of her iPhone. Her thumb traced rhythmic circles over the screen, smudging the thin layer of grease over the reflecting glass. It wasn't fair to ignore Harry, she knew that much. But meeting Harry would lead to emotions and emotions would let her conscience reign, instead of logic - and that would mean she would start to _feel._ The stakes for feelings in such a situation were simply too high at the moment. Behind her, Draco entered the room. She put the phone in the left pocket of her navy blazer without another glance.

As usual, Draco took a seat at her side, a package of books neatly tucked underneath his left arm. Hermione could see an old, rusty-looking cover peaking out from under the rough fabric of his dark leather jacket, but she tore her eyes away, fixing them in front instead, on James. The silver nametag in front of her supervisor shimmered warmly in the yellowish light.

"Now that everyone's here we can finally start." After a short glance and a nod at Draco, James went back to business mode. Being the inspector in these investigations must be hard when faced with such a personal tragedy. Above all, when you're being interrogated by one of your subordinates.

Draco made no move to start the interrogation, and instead crossed his legs and put the books in his lap. There were three now, Hermione saw from the corner of her eyes, but she didn't pay too much attention to it. Instead, she focused on James again.

"It's important to know if Remus had any known enemies."

James shook his head, but then–

"Never. Everyone loved Moony."

For the first time since Hermione had entered James' office, she turned around to face another man, sitting hunched over, at James' desk. Broad shoulders and narrow hips, clad in black jeans. A white, fancy v-neck that stopped right over the waistband, and showed a dark walnut leather belt, obviously from some kind of designer brand. Simple, wooden beads hung around his slender neck and the shaggy hair looked disheveled; he had run his hands through it a few times. The usually grey eyes were bloodshot and glassy, almost as if he had rubbed them too often. Sirius Black.

"Moony was a good guy. No fights. No debts." His voice was shaky, thin flinders on the frozen surface of a sea. He clenched his hands a couple of times, determined and guilty, both at once. "If I had… If I just… I could have saved him–"

"We don't know that," James interrupted, but Sirius didn't believe him. It just further inflamed him. Surprisingly, Sirius clenched his jaw but remained silent.

_Suppressed sense of guilt, anger towards close ones, denial. Obvious reactions for the loss of a close friend._

"What about the pictures?" asked Draco from the side, cocking his head in interest, while Hermione was still busy writing down her observations on a fresh page in her notebook.

This time, both inspectors shook their heads.

_No recognition, like all the other times. Does this mean the victims are not connected at all? _

She tucked a strand of stray hair behind her ear.

_Serial killers without a pattern are rare. This one's far too intelligent to ignore the idea of a bigger pattern behind his kills. And considering all the different riddles that he has left behind, he's definitely up to something. The question is just, what exactly? Choosing random victims may smudge and blur the links, but I will find him. I will._

Draco started with the obvious questions – _did Nymphadora have any enemies? Has Remus mentioned any changes in his life? Has he been sick?_ – but none of the questions had a helpful answer. As Hermione had already noticed in the Lupin household, Remus and his family were completely ordinary. Nothing special. Nothing outstanding.

When Draco asked about his health status, James kept silence while Sirius informed them that all three had been as fit as fiddles. Sirius tried his best to defend his friend. There was more than just adoration in his voice. There was love.

"Remus drank," James suddenly said, interrupting Sirius mid-sentence and getting a nasty glare in return.

She didn't doubt that James loved Remus to the same extent that Sirius did, but it was obvious that he was the one who had his feet on the ground, anchored to finding the truth. Not putting his friend up on some kind of pedestal. For that, Hermione was glad.

Suddenly, the atmosphere changed in the room. The squeamish feeling of touching delicate subjects with weary minds and careful questions, was branded and tainted by the stark contrast of Sirius sudden anger that lashed against James. Hermione cast a sideways glance at Draco, who gave her a look. The kind of look that told you to keep out of it. It was getting harder to breath.

"After hours, never during work time. And, come on Prongs, he never drank that much."

James grimaced. "He used to drink a lot Sirius. After the accident during our college time–"

"That was ages ago. He didn't start agai–"

"Yes he did. You remember Tonks calling when he went missing last year? Three days without a word–"

"Everyone's allowed a low moment at some point." Frustrated, Black slapped his flat palm on the wooden surface of James' desk. A couple of pens vibrated in a gigantic, ceramic bowl that was shaped like a rubber duck, and was being used as a jar to keep them organised; the pens clattered against the it after Sirius' outbreak. James looked at him with a mixture of frustration and exhaustion. Neither Hermione nor Draco said anything for a while; the only sound made by Hermione's pen (Riddle's pen) scratching over blank pages.

_So Remus was an alcoholic. Does Voldemort consider alcoholism as some sort of sickness? Besides, we still don't have the results on Lavender and Hepzibah's health status. _

A quick glance at Sirius and then back to James, and Hermione decided to drop the interrogation for now.

_Sirius is obviously biased; it will only taint our investigation if he keeps twisting or hiding things like that. Tonks and Edward were not the victims, that much is clear by now. Remus had been the target. _

"I think we have everything for now." With a cold finality, she shut the notebook on her lap and ignored the questioning look Draco threw in her direction. This would lead to nothing.

Sirius didn't move an inch, didn't even budge, his face hard and bitter. James, at least, had the decency to look apologetic. And tired. The exhaustion was clearly written on his face. Hermione could swear the man had aged since she had seen him the first time at Lupin's house. Considering the circumstances, he probably had.

"I appreciate your enthusiasm. Do you two think you'll have a profile up by next week? Albus wants us to have an official statement for the press ready for when the conference of the European Commission for Terror Attacks is over this weekend."

_How could I forget. It was an attack on an official British building after all. Of course they'd hold a conference. _

"I think we'll be good," Draco answered for both of them, and Hermione agreed, silently nodding. They said their goodbyes and left the office, side by side, shortly after, Draco striding along as usual, the tomes fitted between his arm and body. Sirius stayed behind. As soon as the wooden door closed with a final thud behind both the agents, Hermione let out a long breath.

"That was weird," Draco finally broke the silence.

"One of the worst feelings in the world is having to doubt someone that you thought was unquestionable."

"You mean the saying people use? That loyalty makes you family?" Draco murmured into the corridor, to no one in particular, but Hermione still felt herself agreeing.

"A person that's truly loyal – that utterly loves you – will never let that image of you go. No matter how hard the situation is."

Draco hummed, but remained silent for the rest of the walk.

_Could I be as loyal as Sirius?_

She thought about it, while her feet dragged her to her office by default, the small messenger bag at her side swaying with each step.

_I cut people out of my life with no explanation, no hesitation and no warning if I have to. I make mistakes and I don't hold onto people and things that I don't want, when I can feel them ruining me. No. I'm not made to be loyal._

The buzzing cadence of her iPhone reminded her, that she still had a conversation to finish. She fished the device out of her blazer pocket and put her code in, blindly. The screen flashed brightly and a second later, green and transparent bubbles appeared. Of course, Harry again.

_Please  
_**HP**

_Yet..._

With a sigh she finally gave in and texted back.

_Perhaps, I am. Perhaps, it's already infused with my bones._

_Sunday, at Fortescue's, 2 p.m. Don't be late.  
_**HG**

**ooo**

**Florean Fortescue's  
****Fenchurch Street Station, 48-50 Minories London EC3N 1JJ  
****Sunday, 28. August, 12:35 p.m.  
**_24 days until the next murder_

Harry was late.

Of course he was, how else could it have been?

Annoyed, Hermione glanced down at her wristwatch, watching the seconds hand ticking. One minute passed, then the next. Five minutes over the scheduled time. Couldn't hurt to go and order a coffee already. At least she'd have something to drink.

Sunday was a busy day for Florean Fortescue's, it seemed; couples and groups gathered in the large hallway of the coffee shop, flirting, chatting and spooning ice cream in the corners. Young and old, both were enjoying a quiet day off in the warm August sun. Hermione queued up behind an elderly couple, and let her gaze wander around the room. She found a flat screen in one of the corners, flashing news and reporters, as well as important, well-known faces, from all over Europe.

_The European Commission for Terror Attacks._

In the rush of the last few days she'd forgotten about it completely. Keeping tracks of Voldemort got harder and harder with each passing day, instead of easier. They still had no more clues, still no more leads. It was devastating.

Absent-mindedly, she watched the rapidly changing faces of arriving heads of states or their representatives. Some of them were easily recognisable, like Dumbledore, who arrived in a suit similar to the one he had worn when Hermione had met him – hideous pink tie included – beside Pomona Sprout, the current Chancellor of Germany. On the bright blue glare of the flat screen, she looked like a nice, older lady in an olive suit, chubby but elegant. Probably grandmother material. Of the type that slipped sweets in their grandchildren's pockets.

The screen flickered back and forth, between Russia's President Karkaroff, to Britain's Prime Minister Slughorn, and finally President Delacour from France - all of them all set for the upcoming terror of Voldemort. Europe didn't often face such horrible terror attacks, like the MI6 bombing. Hence, it provokes hatred in the people's minds – the fear and the anger due to the unknown. Terror attacks were always handled with particular caution, so as not to enrage the wrong people – or worse, looking like not having acted fast enough in the face of obvious danger. A conference of the head of states of different European countries, together with the current leaders of their secret intelligence agencies, should help to keep the people calm. Hermione bit her lip in frustration, dragging the hard, straight line of her teeth over the soft cushion of her underlip.

_Do they not understand that giving him so much attention will just turn him on? He's a narcissist, for God's sake._

She couldn't understand the commentary from her place in the queue, but she doubted it would be informative at this point. After all, the members were still arriving at _the scene of the crime_, so to speak.

"Ms. Granger, I must admit I'm staggered to see you here."

Hermione spun around in a swift motion, alarmed and startled by the smooth, deep voice. Her eyes widened as soon as she realised who it was who had been addressing her; pristine, white oxford, sleeves rolled up to the elbows and the top button open, which revealed the slightest hint of a slender neck. Dark jeans, perfectly coiffed hair, his build tall and lean, and just as devilishly handsome as she remembered him to be – Dr. Riddle.

"Dr. Riddle." She gave him a small smile.

He shot her a sharp, knowing grin and a deep, probing look from his steel-grey eyes. That kind, the one that made a girl's heart beat faster. The one that meant that he could look right into your soul, know your darkest parts and turn them against you. The one that meant trouble.

One of the customers behind him cleared his throat with an annoyed huff and a pointed look, indicating that they move along the queue. Hermione did. Riddle followed right behind.

"Not protecting national security along with the other members of the government today, Ms. Granger?"

"Can't save the Queen everyday, Dr. Riddle."

He gave her a smug smile, but didn't comment on it. Instead, he pointed elegantly towards one of the signs. She wondered if there was anything Tom Marvolo Riddle didn't do elegantly.

"Coffee, Ms. Granger?"

"I'd love that. I had an appointment, but he's running late anyway. And I can't say no to free coffee, can I?" She tried to flash him a charming smile, but failed miserably. Flirting had never been one of her strengths. "How about you, Dr. Riddle? Are you enjoying a day off?"

"Pathologists never have a day off, I'm afraid; it's a fulltime business. People die everyday." The man said it with such causality and apathy that Hermione had the urge to look into his eyes. The look of disgust present therein was noticed by her, but it was half-ignored and half-overlooked.

They both moved further along and gave their orders; a latte cappuccino for her, black, two sugars for him. He paid for both of the drinks, before Hermione could even attempt to take out her wallet.

While they waited for their orders to be readied, she felt him staring at her, with an intensity that burned through the layers of her clothes. Piercing. Fine, drizzle-like sweat was forming at her nape.

"A gentleman should never run late on a date."

The statement made her laugh, dry and humorless. "By all means, he's no gentleman."

Riddle raised one of his perfect, straight eyebrows and Hermione felt as if his dark stare got even more intense. Then, as if in a moment of clarity, his eyes followed swiftly after.

_Oh no, he thinks Harry and I–_

As if to brush off any other assumption, she said, perhaps a tad too hasty, "He's just a friend. Someone I knew from school, a long time ago."

"I see." Riddle's smirk was as sharp as a razor, his eyes glinting with something mischievous, as if she had said something really funny or stupid. Probably both in his opinion. Bastard.

"I would never let a woman wait in line."

She snorted at that. "Of course you wouldn't."

She leaned halfway to get her steaming paper cup, but Riddle beat her to it. His tall, slender body leaned gracefully over the long counter to clasp both cups between his long, bony fingers. He reached over and she took hers out of his waiting hands.

_Cuts on the fingertips, healed and covered by new skin. Most likely from his work in pathology. 5-6 weeks old. Could also be the work of a serial killer. Does Voldemort have–_

She stopped, startled, eyes wide open. She reminded herself, harshly, that she couldn't go on seeing Voldemort everywhere. At this rate, she'd suspect Draco in a week, Dumbledore in a month. Riddle leaned over, his expensive aftershave catching in the back of her throat, sticking like warm honey. Musky. Manly. Fresh, like peppermint.

"I could prove it to you, Ms. Granger. Dinner?"

A deep crimson spread over her cheeks, heating her skin rapidly. She pushed him aside, taking some steps away from the counter to let the next customer get his drink. The warm paper cup steadily emitted the scent of freshly brewed beans. Riddle's aftershave stayed.

"Dr. Riddle I don't–" She stopped mid-sentence, brushing a single strand of curly hair behind her ear. Of course it didn't stay there and sailed right back, lying against her cheek. Unnerving. Even her hair betrayed her at such a moment. "I don't think that would be a good idea. I have a lot of work coming up in the next few weeks..."

Riddle didn't say anything else, just looked at her with the same damn intensity as before. His voice was a singsong, deep baritone, like a sweet melody.

"Of course."

The worst part was, she didn't even know if he had really asked her out or whether he was joking.

She didn't find out either, because suddenly someone called out for her from the end of the queue, a young black man, with dark, corkscrew curls on his head, the sides shaved and hideous hipster glasses balanced on his nose.

Harry.

Hermione gave a small wave, something tentative, accompanied by a small smile. Riddle turned around and glanced over him once, then addressed himself back to her again.

"I see he finally found his way around."

"Yeah." The answer was lame, as was her voice, but she didn't know what else to say. The blush was still creeping at the edges of her golden skin.

Riddle gave her a nod, a sign that he'd take his leave. Before he bid her goodbye, however, he said, "My offer still stands, Ms. Granger."

Every inch of her was frozen to the ground, her heart hammering against her ribcage. Between the closeness, and intensity that Riddle was radiating in waves, Hermione felt terribly,_ terribly_ small. She didn't like it. She didn't know what to do of it either. She nodded, curling her fingers almost painfully around the paper cup, until her knuckles stood out, white.

"I will think about it."

"A man knows when to take his best offer. Good evening, Ms. Granger."

As fast as Riddle had appeared, he vanished between the masses of people, like a shadow fleeing from the living.

Hermione breathed in, deep and rich. Harry joined her a minute later, a bright, orange tropical smoothie in his hands, slurping on the straw.

"A friend?"

She considered the question for a second, but shook her head in defiance. Riddle was… not quite a friend.

"Not in the slightest."

Her heart however, this treacherous thing, missed a beat.

**ooo**

**Hermione's flat  
****Suite 82, 336 Kennington Lane London SE11 5H  
****Sunday, 28. August, 19:56 p.m.  
**_24 days until the next murder_

Sometimes a hot, steaming shower could do wonders for tensed muscles and those little knots that had built up over an exhausting and stressful week. Mostly, Hermione liked the feeling of fresh skin; scrubbing dirt and dust off your overworked flesh was the first step to feeling invigorated. To feel reborn.

As any profiler knew, distancing yourself from your work, once in a while, was important to keep your sanity intact – or better; to prevent dispassion – over the facts and gruesomeness which you were confronted with in your everyday life. Hermione knew also, from experience, that she tended to forget everything else around her as soon as something intriguing caught her interest. Call it macabre or not, Voldemort was by far the most intriguing thing that had ever happened to her.

The meeting with Harry had been... rough. First, they had dealt with the common questions – _What have you been up to? How are you? Anything new in your life? How's ginny? Oh, you're working with Draco now?_ – before Harry had finally mustered up the courage to ask her about what he wanted to from the start. The funeral.

A profiler's view can easily get tainted as soon as personal emotions and feelings start influencing the case or the profile. One wrong equation, one wrong guess and the profile crumbles on itself. It's the same as Edward N. Lorenz' Butterfly Effect; the slightest miscalculation can lead to a whole other end. Once it is in motion, you can't stop it. There's no way of stopping it anymore. It's inevitable.

She turned the water off.

Crookshanks rubbed his shaggy fur along her bare legs and made her skin tickle. She threw on a pair of comfortable shorts and a simple, honey-mustard coloured, sleeveless top. It was a hideous thing that she had bought at a market in Ankara some years ago, during her vacation there, but she liked the thin cotton on hot days like these. It was form-fitting, yet light.

Ten minutes later she was already sitting cross-legged on her sofa, a piece that was far too big for a single person alone. She had to admit, it was more for the aesthetic purpose than it was necessary; a large piece of furniture went with the open room. Her flat was in the middle of London, ten minutes away from the MI6. It was in one of the most expensive areas of the city, but she had been lucky to find it right after college. The landlady was nice and the rent was surprisingly affordable; sometimes she thought about moving, but she liked the claustrophobic feeling of her own little paradise in the midst of the city.

A cup of freshly brewed coffee was sitting, ready, on the table, bearing the legend_ Keep calm and drink coffee_ in the bright colours of the Union Jack. Steam was slowly blowing from the contents – she breathed it in, deeply, and out. Crookshanks was already making himself home in her lap, rubbing his shaggy fur along her thighs this time. She was too tired to be bothered about it.

With an exhausted sigh, Hermione carefully grabbed the first of the tomes Malfoy had given her – which was neatly stacked alongside her notebook on the wide surface of her sofa. First Edition releases, all of them. Quite valuable. She had asked Draco to bring them along for comparison and investigations one night, when they had worked over the riddles for long hours, in her office. Of course she had all the books herself too – _The Aleph and Other Stories, The Name of the Rose, Dante's Inferno _– but often, first editions held some bits and words that had been changed during the time of the new releases. She wanted to see for herself if she could spot any differences. Unfortunately, even the Malfoys didn't have first editions of the _Odyssey_ or _House of Leaves_.

Remus' riddle flashed in dark ink from the bright, white notebook pages.

**Here then – the aftermath of meaning.  
****A lifetime finished between the space of two frames.  
****eahrxladksgswoifml**

_Danielewski. What a mess._

She glanced away and opened the first book to search for the passage of the riddle.

She lost herself in the books for about an hour, flipping carefully through brittle pages, while comparing them to her own notes, but in the end she stopped, no better off than she had been when she had started. Without the code, she couldn't do much about the passages.

_Time to read them all again._

Forcefully, she tried to rub the exhaustion off of her face, pushing her skin up and down, left and right.

_Psychopaths – the prototypes of evil. Charming, intelligent beasts. Why a psychopath? Couldn't it have been a normal killer for once?_

Both eyes opened reluctantly, staring absently at the crystalline table in front of her.

Her gaze rested on her iPhone.

For a split second she tried to imagine a life in which she hadn't chosen to become a profiler. Would she have had a normal life? Working eight hours a day, having the weekend and evenings off, going out, meeting friends, having dinner with a charming someone – Riddle, for example.

_In another life, would I have been able to accept his invitation?_

Hermione snatched the phone from its place, the cool metal steady in her sweating hands.

_A profiler should never lose their mind over a case. A profiler should be able to separate their work and private life. _

She wet her lips once, and her other hand started to fondle Crookshanks' fur, at the special place behind his ear, the one he loved so much. Her heart started to pound between her ribs, her breath caught, behind a row of sharp, white teeth.

Hermione was used to it by now. Being **_that_** girl. The one who read books, while other girls were sunbathing in a public pool. The one who helped Harry and Ron through secondary school, instead of going on a roadtrip through Europe when she had had the chance. The one who stayed at home on a Sunday evening, alone.

Her fingers dialed Riddle's number by default and she couldn't help the terrifying, claustrophobic feeling of her heart swelling with each pushed number. It was disturbingly hypnotic to feel the beat of her pulse drumming in the tips of her fingers. Crookshanks in her lap meowed once, then started to purr. He threw himself on his back, giving her more space to fondle the thick, soft fur on the underside of his belly.

She didn't want to end up alone.

Or worse: lonely.

So why not enjoy life at least?

She pushed the phone button on the sleek screen, and waited for the electronic dialling sound echoing in her ear. The striking sound of the phone ringing on the other side started.

The swelling crescendo of her heart between her ribs, however, didn't stop. Instead, it felt as if it would tear her apart.

_It's not too late. I could just hang up._

Riddle answered on the third ring.

"Riddle." The voice on the other line said in a smooth, velvety baritone, that not even the static could taint.

Her mouth was suddenly drier than the Sahara wastelands. She swallowed.

Some persons make you feel like something special. Deftly layered. Intrigued. Striking. Hypnotic. When she heard the steady breathing on the other side of the line, she wondered, what it was that made her feel so utterly engrossed in Tom Marvolo Riddle.

**ooo**

_There are no Good or Bad people._

_But what are you?  
__What am I?_

_It's like the question for the meaning of life.  
__There's no real answer._

_People have tried again and again to dictate certain standards upon us as human beings.  
__They say it's so we have rules and prohibitions to live a safe life.  
__Altogether.  
__It's a lie.  
__They control us.  
__They control you._

_I don't rate humans as good or bad.  
__We are what we are.  
__We do what we want._

_We're animals._

_Ultimately, we're all just a group of strung-together atoms and raw instincts._

_Those instincts are deep rooted in our veins. Long before our atoms even collided.  
__When we didn't knew how to differentiate.  
__When no one was around to tell us that what we do has consequences;  
__take some rules, shape yourself into a better being._

_The essence of our existence has always been brute force._

_Our society just covered it._

_Covered by faith like the burning of witches, inquisitions and crusades.  
__Covered by politics like in wars, revolutions and freedom.  
__Covered by justice like in the death penalty._

_They all kill._

_So then._

_Why not me?  
__Why not you?_


	8. VII

**A/N:** _I'll try to update this more frequently, but as you may know by now, it needs a lot of research and attention while writing. I try to give my best._

* * *

**I became insane with long intervals of horrible sanity.**

**Edgar Allen Poe**

* * *

**ooo**

* * *

_How well do we really know someone?_

_The art of disguise is a big part of today's society. _

_You blend into flocks and groups __and try to find one you can fit into__. _

_Sometimes you're the hero, sometimes you're the nerd. _

_Peer pressure is more important than individuality. _

_The individual __**you**_ _drowns in the process._

_Every human being tries to fit into the social norm. _

_You're adjusting yourself to a certain kind of standard that masses of brainwashed people dictate to you. _

_The rich never leave their circle. _

_Some will fall, but most will stay on top. _

_As a part of the middle class, you keep your head down and do as your __superiors tell __you. _

_Find a partner. _

_Raise a family. _

_Marry. _

_Move __into __a big house. _

_Don't forget __to have_ _a successful career __by your forties__. _

_If you're lucky, you'll __get to_ _see your grandchildren growing up before you die __of __a heart attack. _

_The lower class tries to reach the top, but don't be blinded __by __society's empty promises. _

_Prejudices and __established __social rules will ensure that rats can never be a part of a higher __society __\- if they don't wear the right masks._

_Because people always wear masks that they switch on and off and __alter according to need._

_One for the job, one for the family. _

_They try to trick each other into __believing that they're_ _something they are not._

_That's just the way it is._

_The perfect father for his kids, the best employee in the job, working late hours without asking for a raise. _

_The first to be there, the best husband and lover. _

_But what if the mask __cracks__? _

_What if that cold, nasty, vile face we wear beneath reaches through the __chinks __and __fissures__? _

_You see how they really act __once __the money is out. _

_When the anger boils, until they clench their fists, ready to blow. _

_When they snap under pressure and cry and shake and break into little, pathetic pieces. _

_Marriages fail, children grow up unloved, friendships turn to hate. _

_The truth is that the more intimately we know someone, the more clearly we see their flaws._

_The truth is, the moment our masks finally drop, we're naked and able to see each other as we truly are._

_Hungry._

* * *

**ooo**

* * *

**MI6 Headquarters, Official Media Conference Room**

**85 Albert Embankment, London SE1 7TP**

**Tuesday, 30. August, 10:03 a.m.**

_22 days until the next murder_

News in London is like the evening rush hour; every time you think you're moving forward, you're actually just stumbling into the next jam. Some years ago there had been sly loopholes the police could use to withhold information, but nowadays people were lead by mistrust and apprehension, so the MI6 couldn't just go ahead and withhold anything that might save a life. And lives were at stake.

James Potter was reciting an official statement displayed on a small monitor in front of the podium. The hall was crowded with all kinds of reporters - vultures circling around, lying in wait for the first being to collapse. All of them thirsty enough to pick at every sentence and question James tried to answer to the best of his abilities.

"Neville told me the department's _fancy _network got a _fancy_ virus," Draco said, leaning his slender body against one of the old pillars. "Someone was downloading porn and it had a spartan or something."

"Trojan," Hermione corrected automatically.

"Whatever. They're all Greek to me."

She snorted, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. But she didn't have time to throw out some witty remark before James left the podium and strode in the general direction of their hiding place behind the stage.

"Ready to deliver the profile?" James looked at her, eyes set and strangely nervous. She could spot the uncertainty lingering in the creases around his eyes. Draco cast a sideways glance at her, but Hermione's focus was already outside, in front of the crowd.

_Okay, this is it. _

She undertook the short distance in long, confident strides, shoulders square under the grey blazer that made her look bigger than she was. The uneasy feeling of a pair of eyes on her followed her until she could take her stand in front of the crowd, but she ignored the nagging question of whether they were Draco's or someone else's.

Eyeing the room from a different angle brought a certain kind of nervosity into Hermione's system. She folded her hands over the sleek, hard surface of the wooden podium, and faced the sea of microphones, notebooks and fountain pens with an icy mask of self-trust. The reporters were waiting impatiently - she could read it on their faces. Tensed eyes, pressed thin lips, bored slouches in their seats. So much indifference for people with so much power at their fingertips. It could be lethal, in the wrong hands.

"Thank you for coming. I'm Special Agent Hermione Granger and I will be briefing you about how to handle the media coverage on this case." Whispers went through the rows, but Hermione could see how the individual audience members became attentive.

"As we can confirm now, all the mentioned murders were done by the same killer. He calls himself Voldemort, but please, refrain from giving him any kind of recognition in your articles," she pleaded. "Calling him by name will diminish the impact of the murder and will give him the kind of recognition he obviously searches for."

"Do I understand you correctly, Ms. Granger, that you want us to keep quiet about this whole mess? Sweep it under the rug?" Perfectly curled hair, bright, magenta glasses on top of a straight, sharp nose and vicious, green eyes daring her to disagree - Rita Skeeter. Star column reporter of _The Times._ In a room full of vultures she was the alpha.

_Such a gnat - someone should trap her in a jar._

"As a narcissist Voldemort lives for any kind of attention people throw at him. I don't want you to sweep it under the rug, Ms. _Skeeter_," she hissed, spitting out her name like it was something foul in her mouth, "But believe me when I say that he'll roll around in the praise and we'll end up with even more corpses than before."

Skeeter didn't look convinced, but she pursed her lips and flattened her lilac dress over the knees.

Hermione suppressed a triumphant harrumph. The white, bright spotlight blinded her shortly.

"Like I said, Voldemort is a high class serial killer. He's intelligent, cunning and most probably charming. We think he builds some trust between his victims and himself before he kills them. Not deep trust, but rather on a kind of interpersonal basis - you wouldn't suspect him upon meeting."

_Sociopaths usually already __have __a couple of entries in the records - I need to remind James to check for anyone __suspicious __in the last __few __years. _

"How does he-"

"Not _**he**_," Hermione interrupted Mrs Skeeter harshly and added, "We can't determine a gender yet and you should refrain from using any misleading personal pronouns."

Skeeter stretched her obscenely coloured lips over the front row of her teeth. "_Apologies_. How does _**Voldemort,**_" she said the name like she wanted to say _disgust_, "choose the victims?"

"We can't define the victimology yet-"

"So what you're saying is you neither know what gender Voldemort has, nor can you say which people are in the most jeopardy? The population is in serious danger. It's reckless of the MI6 to leave us ignorant." Hermione could see half of the room agreeing in silence with Skeeter's dismissive interjection.

Hermione could feel her frustration rising again. A sliver of rage showed on her face as her cheeks heated up. "Well, Mrs. Skeeter if you continue to praise the killer they certainly won't stop. Please refrain from using such words in your articles that egg the killer on. As I said, a couple of times already, they're highly dangerous and narcissistic. Shaming the MI6 for your next big coop will definitely endorse their behavior and perhaps their next victim will be a reporter of _The Times_ then."

The room was covered with a heavy blanket of silence. Even Skeeter paled slightly. Hermione breathed out.

Lovegood made a quick note on his iPad. This would end up in the _The Quibbler_, a lunatic tabloid published weekly. They were famous for publishing conspiracy theories and odd articles about the bad work of London's police force. Some weeks ago someone had blown a bomb at their headquarters to avenge for a rude, sexistic caricature of Christian faith. The only thing Lovegood did was publishing the next issue with an even worse caricature. Provocation as defense. What a mess.

"Listen," she threw a quick glance back at Draco and James, and then her attention was fully on the reporters again, "Voldemort is unlike any killer we have encountered these last few years. The MI6 declares them as security grade six - the highest grade for serial killers out there. Nobody is safe."

They couldn't give out a full profile yet. Any leaked information, like his age or professional group, could lead to the killer going in hiding for months. They needed him to think he had the upper-hand. The only thing the people needed to understand was that nobody was safe. Not as long as Voldemort was out there.

There was nothing to say anymore.

Just as Hermione was about to leave the podium, some young girl besides Lovegood spoke up. "How can we protect ourself?"

The girl had shoulder length hair, dirty blonde, almost sandy. She shared Lovegood's hollow eye sockets, as well as his curved nose. They were obviously related. Strange copper baubles dangled from the girl's ears and reflected the bright light from the spotlights.

"You can't." Hermione turned around, the anger replaced with cold professionalism. "At least not in the traditional sense. Stay wary, don't trust strangers blindly, try to stay in your comfort zone." She flicked her tongue over the dry cushion of her underlip. "A cornered cat can be like a natural disaster - it can wreak everything in its way. Other cats, bugs, garbage, even little dogs - someone like Voldemort, when provoked, is even worse."

No one dared to ask another question.

* * *

**ooo**

* * *

**Hakkasan Hanway Place**

**London, W1T 1HD**

**Wednesday, 31. August, 07:11 p.m.**

_21 days until the next murder_

"What a mess," Hermione complained as soon as she stepped over the golden threshold of the restaurant, an establishment far too posh for her liking. Her drenched coat felt cheap in contrast to the opulent light and fleur-de-lys print curtains. The ferocious blush on her cheeks was due to a mixture of shame and from the effort she had exerted to reach the restaurant on time. Rush hour traffic and roadworks in the middle of London had forced her to be ten minutes late, something she had never been before.

When Riddle first suggested the Hakkasan Hanway restaurant Hermione didn't know about the gold-plated entrance or perfectly tailored uniforms the staff had. Trays full of devilled eggs and little hors d'oeuvres with bacon or artichokes, as well as glasses full of bubbling champagne, passed her on her way through the room and the moment she spotted Riddle at the far end of the room she let out a breath she didn't know she had been holding.

"Ms. Granger."

Riddle looked neither annoyed nor sceptical in his highly expensive, tailored sports jacket and designer chinos. His dashing face split into a charming smile and upon her arrival he instantly rose from his chair to greeted her with a warm handshake and a kiss on either cheek and took her coat off her shoulders. If her cheeks weren't already burning from the slight jog she had had from the car, they'd light up like a Christmas tree after the kisses. The rich, musky smell of his aftershave - sandalwood and syringa - played in her nose and clung to her nostrils even long after she had sat down on the chair he pulled out for her. Feathery, the rough skin of his fingertips brushed the patch of naked skin on her back where her dress ended.

Riddle took the place across from her again and smiled as if nothing had happened.

_Okay Hermione, no profiling tonight. __J__ust try and have a good time._

"I'm dreadfully sorry I'm late, Dr. Riddle," Hermione murmured, while flattening her dress over her knees. Everything about her was discreet: the finely curved eyebrows, the transparent varnished fingernails, her clear voice, the decent little beads on her ears. She wore barely any makeup and her hair fell down her back in long, soft cascades - not an easy task if you considered the hours and masses of products she had slapped into the mostly untameable mess of curls during the past eight hours. A touchy topic she didn't want to talk about.

"There's no need to apologise, Ms. Granger. London can be quite tricky during the rush hour." Riddle gave her another of his charming smiles that made her heart miss a beat, before he turned her attention towards her side. She followed his eyes and spotted a new book carefully wrapped with a red satin ribbon. _Guillotine; It's Legend and Lore _by _Daniel Gerould._ It was plain and reddish, obviously freshly ordered because Hermione couldn't believe that any bookshop would just happen to have this book, waiting in their shelves for desperate history-lovers to buy. "Just a little something I thought you'd like. We briefly talked about the topic in my study, if you remember?"

"Of course I do. I'm speechless, thank you so much," she brushed her hand over the pristine cover and had to suppress the urge to pull the book up into her hands and run her fingertips over each page.

"Hopefully it'll be of help for your investigations."

When she looked up his eyes were chuckling with good humour, drawn from something intense and dark. She could feel the bones inside of her twinge.

She was saved by one of the waiters who brought the menu cards and a single wine card too. Riddle - how else could it have been - had good taste in both, meals and wine. He proved it with a Coche-Dury Genevrieres - a wine far too expensive for Hermione's usual taste - but even the first sip left an explosion of rich, succulent grapes on her palate.

During the entree - Caprese di Astice e Burrata for her, Shrimp Ceviche Lettuce Cups for him - they talked about daily trivialities first, sipping at their glasses, Hermione's slender hands playfully tracing the shape of the crystalware again and again. Riddle looked perfectly in his element. His voice was dark and had such a different tone from the time in his study. He was not mocking her, but rather showing general interest. Pretty fast they fell from Dr. Riddle and Ms. Granger to Tom and Hermione. It felt as if her tendons were twined around his tongue, her body cradled in the cage of his teeth, with each word he was saying. Utterly ravishing.

"Why profiler?" Riddle suddenly asked, as the waiter brought the main course and two additional water glasses. "Someone with a mind as versatile as yours would have certainly been proficient in the legal field. Why deal voluntarily with so much cruelty and human perversity?"

"I've always been fascinated how people's characters function. Why does this person have these special traits? Why did they make that decision? Why do they act like that and not differently? How does one's personality link back to traits of friends or partners?" She cut through an extremely persistent piece of asparagus; her fork screeching on the white plate. Rarely had someone shown so much interest in anything she had said. She remembered all the times she had had to force herself to tone down the intensity of her interest in order to make the boys stay and not run away with a look saying _know-it-all_ with pitiful eyes. Riddle merely smiled, all mysterious, and with a hint of hunger, urging her to move on. Something inside of her caught fire. "Do you know the method of psychological bricks, Tom?"

"I'm afraid I've never heard of them."

"A psychological brick is a human trait that we can describe or translate in psychological terms." She swallowed another bite of her fish and continued with reddened cheeks, "For example, let's say someone you meet tells you exaggerated details about their career, their excellent entrepreneurial skills and how many luxury goods they can buy with the loads of money they get every day. What could you learn from that?"

"That they're presumptuous and probably a fraud. Or a liar."

She couldn't help the little wicked smile that played around the corner of her mouth. "Definitely. But I mostly translate the behaviour and speaking mannerisms in terms of traits, like fear of failure, arrogance, seeking approval. Simple, instinctive catchwords. So called bricks."

"So, what happens next?"

"I put them in order and start to build a fundamental. It's not so different from Lego actually. You have different bricks that belong to different psychological patterns. Shyness and fear for example are both environmental emotions, while arrogance is a personal feeling mostly born out of wealth or superiority. Each pattern has a lot of single psychological bricks which describe impressive and sometimes hidden human traits. With Lego you can use one set to build a knight's castle, and another one to build a hospital. But you can also take the bricks from both and build something else entirely. That's what I'm trying to do. Taking bricks and trying to build a person until I have a clear understanding of them."

Quickly she took a sip of her water to stop herself from continuing to talk about her work all night. Hermione doubted Tom would really be interested in any of these things at all, but to her surprise the man was nearly devouring each word she was saying. He had finished his plate and was leaning on his elbows towards her, hands folded, chin on top. His eyes were dark around the irises but the cold grey was still piercing through a mysterious shadow; it was captivating. Hermione felt her veins contracting, her heart keeping up a hammering beat.

_Why is it that he makes me so undone?_

She leaned back when the waiter arrived to take their mostly empty plates - she had left some soybean sprouts on the edge - and waited for him to return with two crème brûlée and the same coffee order they had had days ago in Florean's; a cappuccino and one black, two sugars.

"What about you, Tom? Why pathology?"

_Can't tell you __I've __read every little snippet about your career, can I?_

It was true, though. She had read a lot about his career before asking for his opinion on the case.

"Fascination of the human being." He ripped both sugar packages open over the cup and flicked his spoon around until the crystal sand had melted into the black drink. "The human body can tell us its whole history, if we know how and where to look. You see, while you compartmentalise human behaviour into bricks, I dismantle the body into stories. I actually developed this way of thinking thanks to my mentor Dr. Grindelwald. I was lucky to be one of the prodigies chosen for his lectures." There was a certain kind of arrogance in his last words, but Hermione didn't particularly care - nor did it make him any less attractive. It was hard to resist such charm after all.

They finished their dessert chatting comfortably, and as they left the restaurant Tom not only paid for their meal and helped her into her coat, but also insisted on bringing her back to her car. He offered his arm and Hermione snaked hers into the crook of it.

"We don't want you to end up as the next Voldemort victim, do we? Besides, your colleagues would suspect me as the murderer and I really don't want to read about it in Rita Skeeter's infamous columns." A flash of razor-sharp teeth; a half-smile in the dark.

"Oh god, have you read it?" With terror she remembered the disastrous briefing from the day before. She hadn't had the time to read her article yet, but Tom's words were colourful enough to imagine the outcome. Tipsy from the wine and in good spirits, Hermione snorted dismissively and even rolled her eyes. "I can already see the headline: Incompetent MI6 profiler killed by own profile." A soft chuckle left her lips. Skeeter was a joke - how could she possibly take anything seriously that came from that woman?

The warm August wind brushed over her cheeks and brought a wave of different scents to her nose, including a whiff of Tom's costly perfume, something that stuck in the back of her mind. She could barely keep herself from burying her nose into the fabric of his jacket, so she concentrated on the early autumn smell. She suddenly realised how much she had missed London by night and its shabby, grease-covered streets that reeked of gasoline and wet leaves.

They reached her car faster as she would have liked because even the silence between them was comfortable. The streets were nearly deserted around them; not many people were out with a psychopath like Voldemort on the loose, but soon enough people would forget again.

_It's just natural. After so many days they'll think nothing __will happen_ _anymore and once everything settles, the 42 days are over, the next body __will lie at __our feet. It's a loop_ _of doom__. _

"Here we are." Tom ripped her out of her thoughts and stopped a foot before the old, battered Volkswagen Rabbit. She was strangely fond of the antique design.

"Both alive," she added playfully, and finally let go of his arm just to regret the loss of his warm body almost immediately. Tom let out a soft laugh, something between a dark chuckle and an amused smirk, that dried out her throat immediately. Wild eyes, a warm, red blush on her cheeks - she could see her own reflection in the silver metal of a street lamp.

"I think we should meet again. Just to make sure that we're still alive." His hand reached out and slid along her fingertips, up to her wrist. Her elbow. Her shoulder. Her neck. His fingers stayed there for a moment, feeling her pulse fluttering beneath the soft cushion of his thumb.

"I'd like that," she breathed, not able to do much more. The fact of his presence, the way he pulled his body closer, out of hunger and desire, without disturbing the air around him, was enough to shift the ground beneath her feet. A soft brush of his fingertips against her chin to tilt it up and her eyes were transfixed on the tender cushions of his pink lips.

Tom leaned down and brushed his lips against hers.

It was a simple connection, almost like a sweet caress, and before she could react, he was already gone. They looked at each other, hungry eyes and muscles, like animals beneath human skin.

Hermione surged forward. Tom did too.

And then she was undone.

Both of her hands found their way up to his thick, dark hair and - _oh god _\- each strand was as soft as it looked. She pulled at the ends and pressed her nails into his scalp, earning a grunt in response. The next thing she felt was the hard metal of her car's door opener pressing into the small of her back - she didn't care. Tom wrapped both his arms around her waist and pulled her flush against him, fingers creeping up her sides. There was still too much space between them. Her world started to spin and she couldn't quite blame the lack of oxygen or the way he tried to rip her breath away and keep it locked between his own teeth. It felt, as if her name was safe inside his mouth. It was utter bliss.

When they finally broke free her hands were buried in the woollen collar of his sports jacket; his were still clinging to her waist. There was an expression of utter fascination on Tom's face, almost as if he had just experienced something completely unbelievable. Like the breaking of a frozen lake, with millions of little fissures and rifts where the light and sun broke through - and then, for a split second, there was nothing but dark, black, emptiness. It was gone, almost as fast as it had come and Hermione wasn't sure if the street lamp hadn't just played a trick on her, so she brushed it away and watched the mischievous sheen return to his eyes.

"That was…"

"Indeed." He took a step back and she allowed him to open the door of the car. "You should call me, if your schedule gives you some time off," he added, watching her climb into the driver's seat.

"I will." Her cheeks were bright red and she could feel her heart beating with lethal animalism.

When he closed the door, and finally vanished from the rear-vision mirror, Hermione breathed out.

Her heart, however, was still drumming his name in morse.

* * *

**ooo**

* * *

_The perfect date. _

_Looking behind __someone's mask__. _

_Finding the real self beneath. _

_What do they think? What do they feel? _

_It's hard to __uncover __the skin beneath a perfect mask. _

_Everyone wears them at dates to __conceal __their ugly traits, so the other person won't suspect them from the start. _

_One smiles. _

_One is charming. _

_Perhaps one brings a gift that one doesn't even like. _

_Trusting that the other person will be __taken __by your generosity. _

_In order to keep your mask it's also important to choose the right atmosphere and place for the first date. _

_Does the location fit the image you're trying to impose? _

_I can't pretend to be a __businessman __in expensive, tailored suits, when the restaurant of choice is part of a fast food chain. _

_I have to know my facts. _

_Not everyone is easy to handle._

_People are versatile. _

_People crave something. _

_One has to learn how to flatter with a simple gesture. _

_To read people and see exactly how lonely they are in their little apartments, living with no one else besides their work and cat. _

_If you're looking behind __someone's mask_ _it's easy to manipulate them and __have __them do exactly what you want them to do. _

_Looking back, I wonder if I should have seen the signs that night._

_When I kissed her, something dark and animalistic __possessed __my body._

_Like an infectious disease that you can't get out of your system anymore._

_The sweet curve of her mouth tasted like every dark thought I __had __ever had._

_Perhaps, I was blinded too._


	9. VIII

**A/N:  
**_I want to thank you, each and everyone who's still with me on this story. Everyone who leaves reviews and comments: you are the best and what makes this story worth! I know that times can be hard to wait for another update, and I know, too, that I sometimes take long breaks. This story is haunting and very personal, so I need to take a step back and concentrate on some other things in order to write Murderer's Maze the best that I can. I appreciate each and every comment/review/kudo or whatever you leave - however, please, leaving me comments saying things like 'I know you've been typing up other stuff but this is by far the most popular and interesting one you've got so far' will NOT give you an update sooner. In fact it delayed this update for another four weeks because I simply couldn't muster the motivation to finally finish it. I know you probably meant well, but it sounded wrong and hurtful when I read it the first time. Don't forget that fanfic writers don't owe you anything. We're doing this in our own free time and we're trying to express ourselves with our words. We're all putting a part of us and our hearts into each and every story, so when you're pushing us or praising one story while saying at the same time that all our other stuff is not as interesting or popular as that one story you like so much, it will demotivate us. Because we put something in everything we write, not just the one story you prefer._

_That said, you will meet a couple of new agents and doctors during this chapter and the Order of the Phoenix finally has the first meeting. This chapter was, as some of you who follow me on tumblr might know, a pain in the ass and drained me for months. I'm excited to say we're closing in on the days when the next murder should happen, just a couple of chapters left until we find out if a new body will show up at their doors. As always Hermione's thoughts are in italic. I'd love if you'd leave me a comment or review if you liked the chapter! _

_As always, my special thanks go out to ozzymandius, who is the best friend and beta anyone can hope for. I love you ozzy._

* * *

_**Sometimes human places breed inhuman monsters.**_

**Stephen King**

* * *

**ooo**

* * *

_Everyone has a conscience._

_The threshold that no one should cross. Your moral judgement that shows you right from wrong and good from bad. Something, that derives from values or norms and that leads to feelings of remorse when a human commits actions that goes against their morals. Social norms that chain and prevent us from reaching our full potential. _

_Guilt.  
__Shame.  
__Regret.  
__Sorrow._

_The so called "voice within" that paralyses you as soon as you go astray. It's lurking, always, right under the surface, waiting to interfere with your everyday life. _

_You can never escape. You can never break out. _

_An oppressive feeling, isn't it?_

* * *

**ooo**

* * *

**MI6 Headquarters, Conference Room B7  
****85 Albert Embankment, London SE1 7TP  
****Friday, 02. September, 11:12 a.m.  
**_19 days until the next murder_

A neatly folded file was slapped down on the desk before Hermione with a loud thunk. She took a look at the brown folder that held a couple of papers in place, before her eyes found their way back to the whiteboard at the end of the room again. There was no need to open the file.

When Dumbledore gave her the badge, inducting her as an official secret member of the Order of the Phoenix, Hermione hadn't known what would be expected of her. Now, sitting in a room with over twenty officers of different ranks, sweating in the early September sun that pushed unyieldingly through giant windows, she was certain it was not _this_. The meeting had been going on for over an hour, with no new evidence coming forth to catch her interest. Everyone was becoming more and more frustrated, the frowns on their brows and tension in their shoulders a clear sign for her to read. Black and James were counting the few details and pieces of evidence that the forensics had found at the crime scene of the Lupin household days ago - pictures of the rooms, the chairs, the blood splatters. None of it added to Hermione's pre-existing profile so far.

James drew a perfect black circle around the general area where the Lupins lived, as well as four other similar circles in different parts of London. Including the MI6 bombing, all the victims were found between three to ten miles apart. "Previously, we thought Voldemort only attacked in London. The last murder negates that theory, however."

"He shifted out of his comfort zone, which means he's getting bolder and more rash," Black added. "Another indicator of this is the time between the bomb and when we found Ted— ... Edward." His hand stopped hovering over the whiteboard. Knuckles white, he pushed the pen down with more force than necessary as he wrote down the approximate timings of their deaths.

_**Andromeda - 7:30 a.m.  
**__**Edward - 8:15 a.m.  
**__**Remus - 9:00 a.m.**_

"I don't think so," Draco said, before Hermione could object, fingers toying with the bottle top of his Perrier bottle. He leaned back until his long legs were stretched out in front of him, as if they had done something to offend him. "The rash part I mean."

"How so?"

"Aunt Dora and Teddy were collateral damage, nothing more. His target was always the MI6 all along."

Hermione couldn't help but agree with him, eyes rigid, nod short.

_Wait. __**Aunt**_ _Dora?_

"You have no right to call her that!," Black spat immediately. James shot him a hard look. His hand on Sirius shoulder tensed subtly, before he steered him back into his chair.

"Believe it or not, Black, but you're not the only one who lost someone that day," Draco countered dryly. Draco didn't mourn, not exactly, but a certain kind of sadness rested amidst the hard lines of his cheekbones; his teeth were clenched too hard. Out of the corners of her eyes, Hermione could see how Black snarled at Draco's comment, but she was not sure how much of Draco's grief was real and how much was just pretence.

Black shook James' hand off his shoulder, violently.

Draco was unfazed. He fell silent again and put on a carefully chosen mask of boredom. Hermione couldn't hold it against him.

The ensuing minutes were complete with people agreeing to disagree, facts that were chewed up and spit out a dozen times, until no one could stomach them anymore, and the dreadful feeling that time was running out on them. Nineteen more days. A clock counting down to the next murder.

Neville, their IT-specialist, was the last one to report. But neither surveillance cameras nor their archives could bring some light to the darkness. It was like picking crumbs in a chicken barn. Lord Voldemort was a ghost. It seemed he could materialise out of thin air, leave a body behind and vanish before any authority of the state could get their hands on him. It was utterly frustrating.

Hermione was sure that something was still missing in the archives. But without the faint glimmer of a clue, they wouldn't get around to finding what they were looking for.

"Thank you Neville," James said, resigned, shoulders slouched. The morning light played tricks on his dark skin and his cheeks seemed to sag because of lack of sleep.

Pessimism was slowly drowning the room and Hermione could feel their hope dropping like sand in an hourglass. When Dumbledore turned around to face her, she could feel a lot of other eyes shift to her as well. It was an unnerving feeling, like spider legs tickling her nape.

"Special Agent Granger, I think it's time to hear the profile," Chief Dumbledore said. There was a curious glint in his periwinkle eyes and Hermione felt strangely tense, almost as if she were being tested.

She gave a short nod, picked up her satchel and rose, her chair screeching across the linoleum. All eyes were set on her when she took James' place at the whiteboard and she felt a sudden rush of dizziness. Almost as if the ground under her feet had shifted and she was free-falling. She hesitated. Her eyes searched for a fixed point and found Draco's eyes, calm but frozen like a lake in winter. She took a breath, and looked away, back to the other officers.

"To understand Lord Voldemort we need to understand the man who wears his name. What was his environment? What made him think like this? What is his social background? Why did he chose these victims?"

She opened her satchel and pulled out a few sheets of paper and a couple of pictures that she put on top of the crime scene ones, almost completely covering all the gruesome scenes. The pictures were from the victims, all taken shortly before they had been murdered. All of them wore happy faces: a slight smile on Lavender's profile, a goofy one on Cedric's. Even Gregorovitch, who usually looked grim and grumpy, had a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"All of these victims were people before they became bodies. We, as officers and agents, tend to forget that. But Voldemort didn't. There's a certain kind of fascination that Voldemort nurtures for people who tell a story."

The words snagged slightly in her throat—she was surprised by the emotion in her own voice.

_Admiration. A reflection of his nature. A God playing with mirrors._

Hermione could see how some of them perked up - above all James, and even Snape. Dumbledore, however, was still as unreadable as ever. His eyes were worn, with dark bags under his glasses, and he looked more tired than the last time she had seen him hunched behind his office. The Voldemort case seemed to be taking a toll on everyone these days.

"So what you're saying Ms. Granger, is that Voldemort acts according to his social environment—"

"Or perhaps he just really likes to kill happy people," Black parried Snape's question.

"Nonsense, a sociopath doesn't care about people's feelings."

"Well, perhaps he's a sociopath who does care—"

"That's even more absurd, Black. For God's sake would you for once read the papers—"

"Voldemort is no sociopath," Hermione blurted, and winced as the room immediately fell silent. The ticking of the clock on the wall sounded unusually loud in the room, almost taunting. Dumbledore arched a grey eyebrow, and Hermione was sure she saw the flicker of a smile at the corner of his lips.

Snape rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed. Hermione's hackles rose. "I don't know if you haven't read the files either Ms. Granger, but Dr. Moody already diagnosed Voldemort as sociopathic in his last profile."

"Yeah, and he paid for it. He died, didn't he?" Hermione's temper was rising, her blood raging in her veins, and she could feel the colour in her cheeks intensifying. She didn't care. Moody might have been a great psychologist with an almost zero error rate, who had reformed the field of profiling single-handedly—but he had been wrong about Voldemort. "I'm still not convinced that Voldemort didn't kill him—and yes, Snape," she said, putting a stop to the objection that was on his lips, "I know that the reports say suicide, but we all know that for Voldemort it would have been a piece of cake to make it seem like a suicide. Oh, and just for your information, I read all the files. That doesn't mean they were right. Voldemort is not a sociopath. He never was."

Snape's mouth snapped shut. Everyone else in the room fell silent, even Black. Dumbledore gave a small half-praising nod in her direction; she felt strangely angry.

_If he __knew __this already, why didn't he say anything? Is he aware that __lives __are at stake?_

But it was not her place to question her superiors. Not yet.

"So what you're saying Ms. Granger, is that we have to deal with a psychopath of the worst kind?" McGonagall asked, her lips pursed and eyes sharp. It was the first time Hermione had heard her speak today.

"Yes. While I agree that there are a lot of sociopathic symptoms, I firmly believe that Voldemort only wanted us to _think_ he's a sociopath. It is all part of his game. There are simply too many clues pointing to his psychopathy to miss." She cleared her throat and turned around to the whiteboard to start writing her notes. "The essential feature of a psychopath is a pervasive, obsessive-compulsive desire to force their delusions on others. Hervey Cleckley lists sixteen different psychopathic symptoms, while Robert Hare lists four more. They overlap and clash a couple of times, but if we're going with these two, we can clearly see how many apply to Voldemort."

The pen screeched loudly over the white surface. Everyone was watching her with interest, shoulders strained; even Snape and Black had stopped bickering to listen to her.

"First of all, Voldemort has no sense of morality, in the human way. For him, there is no right or wrong. Only what is convenient." Hermione turned around, the black pen almost painfully gripped between her hands. "He views the world in a deeply cynical, distrustful and self-centered way. He will mock what we call common sense and seek entertainment in his actions. For him, humanity is a resource to be milked and individual humans are to be used and discarded when no longer needed."

"Bloody psychopath," murmured Neville, toying with the ribbon of his leather wristband.

"I think he prefers _creative_," countered Draco dryly.

"Didn't you say that we shouldn't call him by pronouns so as to not set him off?", another officer asked, while she was taking notes on an iPad. Hermione recognized her as Emmeline Vance, a special agent of the MI6 and a legend who had already worked on numerous older cases. Hermione had read about her success, above all else, in the Crouch case. She was a plain woman, without any makeup to cover her proud face. Her nose was slightly bigger and broke the symmetry—it added to her charm and elegance.

"I did. However, that was mostly for the press, because I didn't want Voldemort to know we have a lead on him."

"So what you're saying is, that you think Voldemort is male?"

"Yes," Hermione answered, without hesitation. It was not only a feeling anymore; a lot of little clues indicated that the murderer was indeed male. The only thing that was still unknown, was his age. She couldn't quite pinpoint when he was born, there was a gap stretching from the mid-twenties up to the early fifties. Sadly, she simply needed more data.

"What symptoms were crucial for your profile?" Vance asked once more, but it was without venom. Curiosity peaked in her words and Hermione was glad to offer some insight on her thoughts.

"As I said, there were a lot of common symptoms that raised my suspicion from the start: outstanding intelligence, noteable charm, no indications of irrational thinking, considerable self-consciousness and an absence of fear or nervosity. Following the so-called red thread of his murders, it was obvious that Voldemort manipulated his victims in a brilliant and slick manner." Hermione earned a few second glances, but those were mostly because all of this information was nothing new. Her fingers flexed around the pen. "As officers and agents we tend to forget that sometimes these murderers are _cleverer _than us. Faster. More reckless. We start to think because we're on the good side, justice triumphs. But here's the deal. We are not _better. _We are not fast enough to catch him. And if we continue like this, we will fail." She paused to emphasise her words, and wet her lips. Only when she was sure she had their complete attention, she continued. "Voldemort is always ten steps ahead of us. He's never speechless. He's never shy or inhibited. He fakes empathy while searching for vulnerability in his victims. Pathological egocentrism. No sign of remorse or shame. Indulgence of deep emotions. Hunger for experience and a need for stimulation. Excessively searching for risks to push his limits. It was all right in front of us, but we couldn't see it."

"I don't want to interrupt, Granger," Malfoy suddenly said, and sat straight in his chair until his hair was completely illuminated by the sun rays that shone through the large windows, "but how can it be that he acts with such careful planning? Aren't psychopaths known for being impulsive and lacking the patience to plan their murders to the tiniest details?"

Out of the corner of her eyes, she could see Neville get up and open one of the large windows to let some fresh air into the room. The sticky scent of too many people crammed in a small space slowly cleared. Draco opened up a second bottle of Perrier water, and refilled her glass too. She nodded thankfully.

"And therein lies the clue. As I said, almost every brick fits with sociopathy—but only just. So I don't think he fits that category. And I think that's what made Dr. Moody think he was a sociopath." Her hands were steady, but her heart was beating frantically. She inhaled like she was preparing to dive into deep waters. "Voldemort _plays_ us. He's a highly-functioning psychopath, able to control not only his emotions but also his life. In fact, I'll even go a step further. My profile says he not only has a stable job, but is also excelling in his career. Voldemort is a manipulator who knows exactly what makes us tick, and knows how to influence and exploit our feelings. He epitomises the dark triad in perfect balance: narcissism, machiavellianism, psychopathy."

An awkward silence fell over the room again. Dumbledore was the one to address Hermione first. His voice was careful, as if it would be the bane of their existence. "What do we have to look for Ms. Granger?"

Her eyes started to burn as excitement curled through her veins.

This was it. Her first real profile.

"Look into doctors. Any people in white-collar jobs that studied any subject in the medical field during the last forty years. Also look into double majors. Into medicine minors. Look into their sons and nephews. Their son-in-laws. Look out for prodigies in any of the aforementioned fields. There's a big chance his intelligence has been noticed and perhaps even advertised by his parents." Everyone in the room started taking notes simultaneously, even Draco. Dumbledore stared at her knowingly. He had a kind of way of looking at her. So deeply like he could see right into her soul. Worry knotted inside of her and she couldn't quite pinpoint why. She could vaguely remember a flicker of something, like a lit matchstick, fluttering before it vanished, as if it had never been there. When she caught herself profiling the man, she stopped and turned her face away.

"What else can you tell us?"

"As I said, he's male. White. Fit, lean built. Charming. Remember, when you go out there you're not looking for Voldemort. You're looking for a man who wears a perfectly crafted mask. People will love this guy. Men will fall over their feet to be his friend. Popular with the ladies. Single. There's no special someone in his life. Many acquaintances. He has little to no real friends. Perhaps one or two, but I doubt that they would know anything about his second life—even if he lets them into his life, they'll only see what he wants to show them. Or what he wants them to know. He lives big and spends his money mostly on things that will show his wealth. Clothes, a luxury car, Italian leather shoes, expensive restaurants. Either an owner-occupied flat or his own house already. He lives here in London. London is his patch, London is his playground. If any of these features fit someone, please report back to Neville, so we can check on him. Never go after him on your own. You will come in the range of this man's interests, and believe me, that is a risk. No one can guarantee your life after that."

"So anyone can still be in danger," James said matter-of-factly, and Hermione could only agree silently.

"He chooses his victims randomly, according to how much they appeal to him—as soon as you cross his path, you're in _his_ story too."

"What about his age?"

Hermione bit her lip and drooped, feeling ashamed. Something she didn't know. "I can't pinpoint the age yet. There are too many variables. Anything from the mid-twenties up to the early fifties." Surprisingly no one attacked her for it. Everyone was too glad to finally have a starting point to nitpick at her profile.

"Okay," James said, when it was clear that Hermione wouldn't add anymore details. He put his pen down. "We should talk about how much we will tell the population—"

"We cannot give any of this information out. Voldemort stages everything—from Gregorovitch's head to the way we found Edward on the chair in the Lupin household. Voldemort is too intelligent, too deceitful and cunning—either it will uplift him or it'll encourage imitators who are just waiting for a chance to let their own beast out."

_People are monsters, if you let them. Better not to urge them on._

"Ms. Granger is right," Dumbledore said, and looked over to McGonagall, who was already typing feverishly on her iPad. "We will publish an official statement that we still can't give any information out. It will give us time to hopefully catch Voldemort during the next twenty days."

James grimaced, but gave in. He slouched back in his chair and looked dissatisfied, and, beyond that, _terrified_. Hermione could practically feel his terror, a fiercer version of the radar-like ripples caused by stress. She understood him all too well. She wasn't keen on leaving people in the dark either. But a national panic would only help Voldemort.

"This new information will hopefully be what we'll need to find and catch Voldemort. I think we should all go back to work now. Minerva will send you a note as to when we will meet again." Dumbledore rose from his chair and everyone else followed, even Draco. The room was suddenly bright and bursting with energy. Everyone was in a good mood leaving the room and Hermione could almost feel her bones pulsating with their vigour. She grabbed her papers and was stuffing them back into her satchel, when Black interrupted her and asked why she hadn't been at the funeral days ago.

"I… I'm sorry, I was doing some research for the case—" Hermione was caught off-guard. Dread made itself at home between her bones. Her chest tightened. Breathing got harder.

He stared right at her for a long moment before finally saying, "Everyone was there. Even Snape."

And Hermione, who was so good at picking things apart, at understanding how they worked—how people worked—looked at the man and felt... conflicted. Because she didn't have to pick Black apart to see what was so obviously raging inside of him. Grief, as Hermione knew, was something quite violent. It had done something to Black that twisted his once handsome face into a cruel mask.

_When no enemy is around you start to lash __out at_ _your allies._

Someone suddenly brushed by her side and it took her a moment to realise it was Draco.

"She went and consulted an expert, Dr. Riddle. He's a known specialist on many medical fields and brought certain details into consideration that helped making the profile of today. The one that should help find Remus' killer—isn't that worth enough?" He was standing at her side, one foot slightly in front of her, almost as if he wanted to shield her. It was the most she had heard him speak today, even if every word dripped scorn.

"Of course it is. Good job Hermione," James said soothingly, and put a hand on Sirius' shoulder, to guide him out of the room. Dumbledore stood nearby and his face was unreadable once more. He left the room with a last glance at their direction, face solemn and stoic. Sirius didn't look back. His head was hanging and James was murmuring to him. Hermione watched them go, Black's man-bun bobbing as he followed James out.

Draco considered her for a moment too long, and smirked enough for dimples to appear at the corners of his mouth. "Lucky I was around."

"So you think I wouldn't have been able to handle that myself?"

He looked at her strangely, almost curiously, a glint of something in his gaze. For a moment, Draco didn't seem ruthless or uncaring at all. She could see the carefully layered mask that years as a Malfoy heir had created glinting in the grey of his eyes. Then he blinked and it was gone.

"I think," he said, sounding honest, "You can handle anything, with that thick head of yours."

And then he smiled and laughed lightly, the sound low and deep and colourful enough that it almost hurt between Hermione's breaths. The smile was like a symphony that carries through the harsh wind—a beautiful sound that fights against the howling and whistling with its simplistic perfection.

Her heart stuttered. Muscle memory.

"Come on, Granger," Draco said, and started walking. "I need a big cup of coffee now and I think you can do with one too. My treat."

He turned and left the room without waiting for her to follow. She stared at his retreating back wondering since when she had been holding her breath without noticing.

* * *

**ooo**

* * *

**Florean Fortescue's  
****Fenchurch Street Station, 48-50 Minories London EC3N 1JJ  
****Friday, 02. September, 02:34 p.m.  
**_19 days until the next murder_

Surprisingly, when they arrived at Florean Fortescue's, the shop was almost empty. Afternoons were usually a busy time with lots of chatter and people gathering en masse to order ice frappés or their famous Florean's Three-Scoops-Surprise. Not this afternoon.

There were two men standing with their backs to the entrance, wearing expensive suits, while waiting for the barista to wrap up their order. A little boy was eating a double chocolate parfait with white crisps, while his grandma sipped a cappuccino on ice. A handful of boys and girls—obviously students—wearing big headphones, were spreading their laptops, and some grey-colored study books, over the tables, using the free Wi-Fi to work on their essays, which were most likely due at the start of the new term.

Draco was in the middle of a story about Blaise and Pansy and how he had to bail them both out of a French jail—in a city that's name he could pronounce perfectly, of course—after she had slapped an officer for staring at her breasts too long, when it happened. Hermione had got distracted for a moment looking at Draco's face, which had looked easy-going and open a minute before, but reminded her of a perfect Greek statue now. Cold and unmoving. Like marble. Now, he faltered and stepped back, putting more space between them. Hermione's gaze focused.

"Draco?"

Hermione turned to the direction of the voice, the bun of wild hair feeling awfully like a mess on her head. She froze to the ground. The two men standing in the queue a minute before, were slowly coming their way, each holding a large cup of Florean's best coffee in their hands.

"I thought you said you had a super important conference to be at. Looks super important to me, huh?", one of them said, raising his cup at Hermione's direction. The man was as blond as Draco, with an undercut hairstyle that was slicked back with a lot of styling gel. Tall. Handsome. Energetic. Athletic. There was something cute and sweet and _harmless_ about him. The resemblance to Draco was striking; the same sharp bone-structure, same straight nose, same grey eyes—they even had the same shade, between grey and green. The only difference were the clothes, if that was any indication at all. While Draco swore on Henleys and his leather jacket, this man was clearly born to wear a Westwood suit. There were few men who could wear a suit, without the suit wearing them, and this one was definitely one of them.

But it wasn't for him that Hermione's steps faltered and her breath caught behind her row of perfect teeth. The second man was approaching her with a lightness of step, lips curled up into an amused grin—Tom. There was pleased interest behind his grey eyes and Hermione felt suddenly drawn back into the center of his gravitation. He leaned forward and pressed a dry kiss on her cheek. Her skin flared up an instant later.

"Hermione," Tom said, and his velvety voice sent shivers down her spine. That bone-deep kind of shiver that had less to do with cold and more to do with desire. The space between them had dwindled into nothing. His gaze was intense. It was an electrifying feeling, as if every fibre of her body had been waiting for him to breath life into her.

"Tom," she smiled, and tried to hold onto that warm feeling that his name left inside her mouth. Her voice was more certain now than it had been days before. Less like she _wished _and more like she _wanted. _She felt the sudden urge to adjust the mess of hair on her head.

Draco on her left side clenched his hands into fists. He was silent as a grave and glaring daggers in Riddle's direction.

The blond man seemed, obviously, to not be expecting any answer from Draco, so he turned to Tom with raised eyebrows and a curious glint behind his eyes. "Care to introduce us, Tom?"

"Forgive my manners. Abraxas. This is Special Agent Hermione Granger. Hermione, this is Abraxas Malfoy. A good friend."

_A Malfoy. Of course._

Hermione took Abraxas' outstretched hand slowly. The skin looked pristine and soft, the kind you only had from a life predestined in wealth, without having to endure hard labour.

"My pleasure Ms. Granger," Abraxas said and flashed her a smile to shame the sun. It was honest and pure and, most importantly, open to any kind of vulnerability—which was even more uncharacteristic for a Malfoy. There was something else lingering at the corners, almost something mischievous and _knowing_. "Tom speaks of you in the highest of praises. I must admit I've never seen him quite so fond of a girl before." He winked at her and added almost immediately so no one could interrupt him, "It seems you know my little brother, too. It's a shame Draco never introduced us."

Slowly, flashes of long forgotten memories returned to her. She remembered Abraxas, vaguely, waiting in a black Mercedes Cabriolet in the parking lot of Oxford to pick Draco up for the weekend. Back then she had thought Draco a snob. But there's always more than meets the eye.

Abraxas' phone started chiming with the discreet default music, but he put the call on hold. "We're actually running late, but I'd love to continue this conversation another time."

Hermione could see that he was dwelling on something, before he made up his mind. His eyes lit up and did a strange thing to his face; it became younger, more playful. Comparing it to Draco's, it was a miracle how brothers could look so much alike and at the same time so different from each other.

"I'd love to invite you to my exhibition next Saturday. It's nothing big, just a couple of new age artists I'm presenting in one of our cottages outside of London. There will be friends of the family and art lovers."

"I… feel honoured, thank you." Hermione had never been invited to one of these parties before. It would be a good place to do some research about their social circle. Do some nosing and digging around. Perhaps, Voldemort would be around, too.

_If my profile's right, this will be exactly the kind of company he searches for._

"We could go together," Tom suggested casually, but his tone implied something else. It was more than just a casual question. There was a hint of earnestness lingering at the edges. A peculiar tingling sensation crawled over her body. They hadn't had the time to talk about their last date. Work had interfered with both of their lives, and so they had been too busy, except for superficial texts and the common _how are you - fine, you? - me too_. Tom was still smiling at her; his rich, dark hair caught the too bright sun, bringing out different shades of brown. He was like a magnet and Hermione could feel herself drifting _towards_ him.

She felt dazed and distant.

"I'd like that," she said, a blush creeping up her skin. The blood under her cheeks felt searing hot. Somewhere in the room, someone's chair scraped back an inch, but no one stood up.

Hermione's attention was dragged back to the brothers that looked so alike and were anything but. "It's a date then," Abraxas glanced down at his watch and tapped Tom's shoulder shortly, before his eyes found Draco's again, "I'll see you tomorrow at dinner?"

Curiously, she watched how Draco pulled himself apart and put himself back together, and forced his lips into the smoothest, coldest smile he could. It looked fake. Almost painful. He tipped his chin up as soon as he saw his brother make his way around them, already having taken the call and talking on the phone. Something about medical attention. Abraxas was twisting his voice in a deep, commanding baritone, but his face, even in the blur that was his expression, was composed and cold. Riddle gave her an apologetic smile and leaned forward to brush his lips against her cheek once more. His breath was warm and inviting as he whispered his goodbyes. It smelled of fresh mint. She shivered.

There was something defiant in Draco's eyes and dangerous in the lines of his jaw.

"Yeah, see you tomorrow."

Hermione risked a glance over her shoulder to look at Abraxas' reaction—both were already gone.

Draco's forced smile, however, stayed for the rest of the day.

* * *

**ooo**

* * *

_Imagine a life without a conscience. _

_No guilt.  
__No shame.  
__No remorse._

_No limiting emotions, __for __whatever immoral action you have taken.  
A world without a second wasted on __thinking about_ _the wellbeing of family members. Or friends. Or strangers._

_No ballast._

_No internal restraints, whatever you do._

_**A life without constraint.**_

_You're not held back from any of your desires. Pure creativity flows through your veins and shows you a twisted tale of ambition and imagination.  
__Hide the fact that you are conscience-free with charm and good __humour__.  
People think conscience is universal __amongst __human beings_—_let them accept their burden without question.  
__Fools._

_No one will ever confront you for your ruthlessness.  
The cold blood in your veins is so bizarre, so completely unlike their personal experience, that they will never suspect you to be different.  
__To be __**better.**_

_You can do anything you want.  
__No chains._

_Complete and utter **freedom.**_

_Welcome to my life._


End file.

Harry Potter, Angst, Horror