Bleed Them Dry

Saturday, August 31. 10:23 PM

Fleur Delacour stepped out of the ancient, inoperable phone booth, having just returned from the Ministry of Magic. She had been visiting Prime Minister Fudge for "business" purposes and was on her way to 12 Grimmauld Place to report to the Order. Her assignment was mainly to keep an eye on Fudge and to alert Dumbledore if he seemed to be up to something. On most nights such as these, she would still be in Fudge's office doing scandalous things, her own interpretation of "keeping an eye on him".

However, this was not a usual night and that afternoon, Fleur had arrived a tad early at the Ministry. As Fudge was not in his office at the time, she sat down in his chair to patiently wait for his arrival. She glimpsed a letter he had begun; it was lying open on his desk, so it wasn't as if she had intentionally snooped. Smiling to herself, she leaned forward to read it.

Her smile quickly faded. The letter was directed at a Mr. Malfoy, a name that she knew was involved with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and its contents were somewhat less than pleasing. Fudge was giving valuable information about the Order--information that Fleur had irresponsibly given him--to the man. The most disconcerting part was that Fudge wrote as if he intentionally deceived Fleur to get this information.

When Fudge appeared a few moments later looking frazzled and confused, Fleur could not convince herself that this man would do something like that to her, so she did not say anything and gave him what she knew he wanted. In the end, though, her curiosity got the better of her, and she asked him, ever so politely, what the letter was about.

After a longwinded argument, Fleur knew that it was all true; every word on that page was the cold truth. She was delayed for several hours, as Fudge knew she would report directly to the Order and her fiancé, Bill Weasley. When she finally managed to escape from the Ministry, it was late, and she was too exhausted to risk Apparating.

And that was how it so happened that at ten thirty that evening she was walking along, humming a melancholy tune. She had been used, made a fool of, and would have to tell her dearest Billy how she had come upon this information.

"Hey, you," a man's voice called out from an alley.

Fleur brought herself to a halt and turned towards the direction of the voice. Her hands found their way into her pocket, fingering her wand. "What eez it?" she snapped, both annoyed and nervous.

The silhouette of a man appeared from the alley. As he stepped into the dull light of the street, Fleur noted that he was dressed rather nicely and holding an oddly shaped suitcase. "I was wondering if perhaps you could point me in the direction of Diagon Alley. I seem to have lost my way," he began, twirling a rose in one hand.

Fleur blinked, thinking for a moment. "'You are razzer far from 'zere. It eez at ze least several blocks. Why not just apparate?" she asked quizzically, eager to return to the safety of Black's old home.

"I am not, ah, fond of apparating. Perhaps you could draw me a map?" he asked, unclasping his case.

"No need. It eez straight down 'zis road for several blocks. When you get to Charing Cross Road, turn left. 'Zen you will see it," Fleur explained, gesturing down the street. The man nodded appreciatively.

"Thank you, miss. I am most apologetic for delaying you further, but, ah..." The man hesitated, slipping something out of the suitcase.

"What--?" Fleur never had time to finish her question. A knife glimmered in the dim street light just before it slit her throat.

* * * * *

Sunday, September 1. 8:12 AM

"Inspector Abberline, what exactly pulled you out of retirement?" Rita Skeeter demanded, her Quick-Quotes Quill already scrawling across the page.

The elderly inspector glared at the reporter. "I am going to have to request that you leave my crime scene at once, miss," he ordered, in no mood for her pestering. The inspector, notorious for his days on the Jack the Ripper case, had retired years ago but had recently returned to his department in the Ministry. This was his first case since his retirement in 1892, and he had only returned temporarily because of its remarkable similarity to that of the Ripper case (and the fact that Ministry no longer had any detectives intelligent enough to solve anymore than a crossword puzzle).

A medi-wizard promptly vomited in a near-bye bush after seeing the mutilated corpse. Abberline sucked in one last breath before strolling towards the body. A group of bystanders was standing off to the side, most of them crying. He looked towards the body and felt a pang of nausea sweep through him. "Any witnesses?" he asked hesitantly, his eyes glued to the body. Something about the way the woman was murdered, with her throat slit and vicious slash marks lining her abdomen, made Abberline long for the thrill of hunting elusive murderers. The majority of her clothes and the ground beneath her were crimson with blood. A single red rose lay on her chest. It blended perfectly with the surrounding blood.

A younger detective answered him, "No, sir. Ministry is frazzled. See, she was leaving there late last night but never got home. It was at least ten when she was... killed. A Muggle found her this morning. Her name was Fleur Delacour, sir."

Abberline groaned in frustration. "Please, God, tell me that the police weren't called." The wizard nodded grimly. "Bloody hell! This is going to wind up in Muggle papers, damnit! Get those lazy bums in the memory-what's-it section over here!" he hissed, fumbling for the correct words. With the Muggle police involved, it would be nearly impossible to get anything done.

"Yes, sir, I will do it immediately, sir. Oh, and see those redheads over there? You'll want to be speaking with them, sir, because they're relatives or something of the sort," the young wizard responded prior to dashing off to get the Obliviators.

Abberline glanced once more at the mutilated body and then at the surrounding Ministry inspectors. They seemed to be doing a satisfactory job, so he made his way over towards the teary eyed bystanders. "I was told you, ah, knew the victim," he began hesitantly. This was the part of his job that just blatantly sucked. He couldn't help but feel empathy for the poor family who would be forced to cope with this.

A tall carrot-topped man nodded, his eyes red and puffy. "She was my fiancée," he whispered in a voice hoarse from crying.

Abberline gave a quick nod. "May I have your name?"

"Weasley. Bill Weasley," he replied quietly.

The inspector nodded again. "Well, Mr. Weasley, there haven't been any leads yet, but I assure you that we will find the culprit. I promise. I also need to impress upon you the necessity of details on why she was out so late and where you were. If you know anything at all--"

"She had been at the Ministry, damnit! Fleur was on her way home to me! She never ticked anyone off; she was too much of a flirt for that!" Bill interrupted, his eyes blazing. "If you even dare to accuse me of murdering her, I swear I'll--"

Abberline sighed, much used to these reactions. "I am not accusing you, Mr. Weasley. I am merely doing my job. We have zero leads as of now, and everyone is a suspect. Please calm yourself down, and then go speak with Mrs. Bones over there." Abberline quickly left Weasley and returned to the body. By now things were calming down somewhat, and he could get a closer look.

"Looks like a Ripper murder, eh Abberline?" an elderly wizard from the Magical Law Enforcement Squad said jokingly. Abberline smirked but then recalled something. He leaned over the body and examined the injuries. They were oddly similar to Ripper's old style. It couldn't be, though, could it?