Come out to play

Chapter Three: Signing off

She waited. She observed her from her hiding place. The woman sat, hard at work at her desk, busily - no greedily scribbling down every titbit she could dredge up for her precious newspaper. From outside, swathed in black, the younger woman watched, face sheathed by a hood. She watched as the older woman earned her overtime pay by falsifying interviews and making up lies and reading the society pages of Witch Weekly. She watched as the woman lay her head down on the desk and closed her eyes, obviously planning to sleep. It would be fun, capturing and torturing her. She slipped away from the window and in through the unlocked main doors of the office, crossing the foyer briskly, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking slightly on the polished tiles. She paused by a towering potted plant, which began to slide a pink tendril along her arm. She swatted at her arm lightly, and the tendril yielded and withdrew. She scanned the room; there were so many doors. She had found the one she wanted. She crossed to it and looked at a rolled up the sleeve of her robes to regard a small wristwatch. It was a little after twelve. Perfect. She had plenty of time. Her eyes swept the flamboyant reception area critically. From a distance it looked good. Up close it looked tacky, rushed, unfinished. Un-cared for. That was it. She opened the door slowly, causing it to make that all-too-familiar ominous creaking sound. The hinges whined as she leant on it. The woman, she noted with pleasure was now fully awake. The accomplished assassin crossed to the proficient journalist in a few strides. The woman towered over the journalist whom had ruthlessly butchered peoples' lives with the point of her quill. She picked the golden plaque from amongst the chaos on the desk and traced the letters with a gloved finger. Rita Skeeter, the looping script read, a picture of her flashing up every few seconds. The sudden movement of Skeeter caught her eye and she looked up. There was no reason to shield her face now. She spoke, although her words were premeditated.

"If you move once more I will kill you slowly using the Cruciatus Curse, and you will go insane with the pain. I may then go onto Imperius, and perhaps a little Avada Kedavra may get the party going. How would you like that? Now, kindly remove your hand from your desk drawer, put down your wand and I will consider not prolonging your death. As a bonus, I'll even let you die honourably and not tell anyone you have been filching the Daily Prophet's funds for years and slept with no less than ten men from this department alone to get where you are today." Her tone was calm, almost reassuring but her eyes held that steely crazed glint. Blood lust was a small vice of hers.

Rita whimpered pathetically. Her voice was almost inaudible, but it rang true. "Why?" she whispered. "What did I ever do to you?"

She chose to ignore this and credited Rita a little light humour as she tied her hands palms up to the armrests of her chair.

"You know, if I didn't have to kill you and all, I would sure like your autograph." Her voice held an amused sarcastic edge. She bound Rita's feet to the legs of her chair and gagged her tightly. She was about to reach into her pocket for her knife when she spotted something glinting from a desk drawer. Upon investigation, the glinting object turned out to be a pair of scissors; jaws open wide. A cruel smile played on her lips as she abandoned her knife and took these instead. She pressed the blade to Rita's left wrist and felt her quiver. "I told you not to move," she hissed and pressed the blade more forcefully into her wrist. "Rita," she stated calmly, and the woman's eyes roved the room nervously before resting on her face. "I am going to let you bleed to death. Now how does that sound?" she queried, her voice taking on that maniacal edge once more.

Rita made an indistinct sound, the gag greatly restricting her power of speech.

She merely smiled back and raised the arm holding the scissors. She brought her arm down in a smooth arc and sliced the skin open at the wrist, gouging a deep cut. Blood immediately began to drip from the cut, running down Rita's wrist in sticky droplets. She raised her arm again and hacked at the other wrist. Rita's eyes boggled from the pain. She placed a finger to one of the cuts and examined the blood on the end of it. She turned to the wall where all the week's projects were pinned up and experimentally pressed her gloved fingertip down on it. This is Rita Skeeter, signing off. Satisfied with the result, she began to daub her grisly message.

******

Hermione was awoken with a loud shrilling sound. She groaned and turned over, hoping it would eventually stop, but when it became clear this was not the case, she sighed and clicked her alarm clock off. She swung her legs out of her bed and made her way groggily to the kitchen, picking up the Daily Prophet on the way. Through half-closed eyes, she filled the kettle with water and slipped a couple of pieces of bread into the toaster. The kettle came to the boil and she poured some water into her mug with a teabag, allowing it to steep whilst she buttered her toast. She set the knife down and raised it to her mouth to take a bite.

"Morning," a voice said behind her.

Hermione dropped the piece of toast and it began its descent to the floor.

"Wingardium Leviosa," the voice commanded and the piece of toast hung in mid-air.

Hermione turned around. It was Malfoy. "What are you doing here?" she asked, acutely aware that she was in her pyjamas and looked like she had spent the entire night backcombing her hair so it resembled a small rodent living on her head.

"Not pleased to see me?" he drawled and helped himself to the other piece of toast. "I could do with some tea," he added pointedly.

"Right," Hermione nodded and turned back to the kettle. She reached for another mug and filled it with water. "I got another one, but the way, note from the killer, I mean." She indicated the kitchen table with a toss of her head. She heard a piece of paper being unfolded behind her and then only the sounds of crunching from Draco eating the toast.

"Why don't you do something about it?" he asked between bites of toast.

"I figured that if I leave it, it may lead us to the killer eventually," Hermione answered, stirring the tea. She set a cup down in front of Draco and picked up her copy of the Daily Prophet. She snatched her cup of tea from the worktop. Raising it to her lips, she turned the paper over and focused on the front page. It wasn't so much the headline, but the picture which caught her attention. The familiar tone, the customary signature.

"ENJOYING THE SHOW? - SIGNED."

She felt her grip on the mug loosen and then she realised she was no longer clutching the mug at all, but air.

"Wingardium Leviosa," Draco said, holding out his wand, "getting a little careless, aren't we?"

"There's been another murder Draco. That's the third one." She handed him the paper and he read it in silence.

"Rita Skeeter, who would have thought it?" he mused to himself. "I have more news for you. I checked out Finch-Fletchley's story with his work. They said he left at five-thirty. He wasn't working late. So I questioned some of his colleagues, asked them if they knew where he was. They said he normally goes down to the Blue Hippogriff after work each night. So I went there. A really dodgy place. I walked in and asked around. Turns out he sold the confiscated illegal magical drugs for an extra income. He was doing shady dealings which explains why he wouldn't tell us the truth," he finished finally, looking very pleased with himself.

"And Seamus Finnigan? Has he been tracked down yet? And what about Blaise Zabini? We need to interview her, too," Hermione queried, seizing her piece of toast which had been suspended in mid-air.

"We have an address for Finnigan and some kind of calling card for Zabini. But before that we need to visit the Daily Prophet Offices," Draco replied.

"So, why are you here?" Hermione asked, confused.

"Isn't it obvious? You're late!" Draco pointed out, a sweet smirk spreading across his face.

Hermione glanced at the clock and set the mug down sharply. "Shit! I have to have a shower and everything!" She ran from the room, and into the bathroom.

******

Once she had wrestled her hair into submission and scrubbed up, Hermione didn't look too bad, Draco conceded as they crossed the lobby, having used Floo powder from Hermione's apartment. Today she had managed to tame her hair into a messy bun, with a couple of tendrils framing her face which were too stubborn to be bound into the bun. She wore a knee-length black skirt with pinstripes and a matching jacket. Yes, she did look rather good this morning. He was grateful to work alongside Granger; it kept him on his toes and exercised his intellect. He smiled to himself as they let themselves into what had been Rita's office. Draco walked briskly into the room, followed by Hermione. The Muggles had removed the body, it seemed. Probably just as well. He wrinkled his nose at the bitter, metallic odour of the dried blood which had stained the pale blue carpet and painted a morbid message on the wall. Hermione began to take pictures, using a small camera she had somehow secreted on her person. Draco sighed and opened his notebook to take some notes.

"Look," Hermione said, indicating the chair.

Draco looked up. "What?" he said, distractedly peering down her décolletage.

"The chair. There's dried blood on the chair," Hermione answered, "but it's only on the armrests of it."

"So?" asked Draco disinterestedly.

Hermione sighed. "I don't know," she admitted and turned back to her work.

"What did they say the murder weapon was?" Draco inquired.

"Scissors. The wrists were slashed and she was left to bleed to death. The scissors were her own, her fingerprints are all over them," Hermione said, without looking up.

"I think we're done here," Draco said and turned to go.

"But-" Hermione started.

"We're done," he repeated and Hermione had no choice but to leave the room.

******

Hermione followed Draco's lead and Apparated to Azkaban. They didn't Apparate to Azkaban as such, merely to the gates. They passed through without incident. They walked down the dimly lit corridor and entered into the interrogation room they had used when they had questioned Finch-Fletchley the last time. Hermione at once felt her happy thoughts dissolve again. She sat at the table and tried to collect her thoughts. Once this proved impossible, she took to tapping her quill listlessly on the edge of the table. This carried on for a few minutes before Draco apparently felt a loud "SHUT UP!" was in order. It was then that the door was opened and Finch-Fletchley was ushered in by his lawyer. There were dark circles under his eyes and his eyes looked hooded, lifeless, and empty. As he sat on the chair, his stance was guarded and wary and he crossed his arms and looked at Hermione and Draco.

"Well? What do you want this time?" he asked and cast them both glares.

Hermione was irritated by his attitude already. "Why? Planning on going somewhere are we?" she inquired sweetly before she could stop herself. Draco shot her an impressed look. "No, I didn't think so either," she said after there was a silence on Finch-Fletchley's part.

"Mr. Finch-Fletchley, would you care to recount the events of the night of your wife's death once more for us please?" Draco asked.

Justin eyed them suspiciously. "Why? I already told you. I left work at about half-six; I was working late. I came home and saw my wife being murdered. Why do I need to tell you again?" he asked.

"What kind of time did you say you arrived home?" asked Hermione, scribbling in her notebook with a quill.

"About seven-thirty," he replied and realised his mistake.

"So," Draco cut in briskly, "that essentially means it took you a whole hour to get home, when normally it would only take you ten to fifteen minutes."

There was an awkward pause.

"Also," said Hermione, "we know you didn't work late at all, you see, we have all the records of comings and goings of your workplace. We know you signed out at 17:31 and you most definitely left the building straight after that. The question is: why would you need to lie?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Justin said stubbornly, his expression seeming to grow darker by the minute.

Draco sighed. "I wish we had time to play your little game, Finch-Fletchley, but frankly we don't. As we're here, we could have you done for wasting valuable investigating time, too," he said and smirked. Justin began to pick at his cuticles. The lawyer mopped his brow with a handkerchief. Hermione and Draco just sat in silence, their gazes turned inquisitively to Justin.

"We're waiting," Hermione reminded him briskly. Sometimes it didn't hurt to take charge. Plus, it made her look good.

"We could use Veritaserum, Detective Inspector Granger, or perhaps that is not strong enough. Perhaps an Unforgivable would favour more in this instance," Draco said, with a sly smile gracing his features.

Hermione shot him a warning look to tell him he had gone too far. "As I am sure you are aware, my colleague is joking. We will, however, not hesitate to use Veritaserum if you refuse to co-operate. The consequences may weigh more heavily on the final verdict passed by the judge."

Justin seemed to be having an battle of conscience in his head. He screwed his face up. "Okay, okay," he said, holding his hands up, "I left work at five-thirty. I went to the Blue Hippogriff. It's a kind of...club. Quite exclusive. You know it?" This question was directed at Hermione and she shook her head slightly. "Whilst I was there, I had a few drinks with my friends and got a little...tipsy. I went home and saw my wife being murdered. End of," he finished decisively.

"Are you sure that's the end?" Hermione asked, "Are you sure you only had a few 'drinks' with your friends? Nothing more?"

"No." Justin shook his head vigorously, his lank hair bouncing around his head.

"So you are honestly telling me you go to the Blue Hippogriff club for 'the atmosphere' and 'the alcohol'?" Draco asked.

"Yes," he said again.

"I don't believe you," Draco taunted softly, "we know that the Blue Hippogriff doesn't sell alcoholic beverages of any kind. Or any beverages at all, to be exact."

"What we do know is that they make a practice in trade of illegal drugs. Now what would a successful businessman want with a seedy place like that?" Hermione asked, feeling smug.

Justin's cheeks turned slightly red. "Well...I go there to meet my friends," he stated, looking less sure of himself now.

"Give it up, Finch-Fletchley. Did you not think that we would do our homework before we came? We know what you were doing there, we know when you went there and therefore we know that you can no longer be implicated with the murder charges relating to your late wife's death," Draco said, leaning back in his chair.

Justin's shoulders sagged with relief. "But," continued Hermione, "we aren't finished yet. You still have yet to be tried for illegal commerce and possession of magical drugs."

Justin's head jerked up and his face blanched. His lawyer heaved his own portly form to his feet. "Now, now, surely we could settle this some other way...A little negotiation, perhaps? We could peruse the matter over a coffee and come to a more...amenable solution for my client," said the lawyer, raking a chubby hand through his sparse comb-over.

Draco regarded him coldly. "Mr. Fitzpatrick, I hope you are not suggesting bribery," he said, deliberately stressing the last word.

Fitzpatrick flushed, and brought out his handkerchief once more. He mopped his brow agitatedly. "No...Not a bribe as such, more of an...agreement," he said and winked.

Draco pretended to mull this over. The lawyer seemed to hold his breath hopefully. "You realise that it's a felony, bribing authority of any kind?" he asked finally.

The lawyer nodded. "But, we don't have to tell anyone..." He let himself trail off.

"For a lawyer, you really don't know what the right side of the law is, do you? You are a disgrace to your profession," he replied in clipped tones and walked from the room.

******

Seamus hadn't eaten at all today. In fact, he hadn't eaten at all for the past few days. He hadn't washed either. Once or twice, throughout the past few days, the woman from next door had popped over to check how he was doing. She had stopped coming now; it was probably the smell that drove her away. The smell of festering, mouldy dishes piled up by the sink, the smell of damp, creeping into every room, the smell of emaciated human flesh and the smell of faint, lingering body odour.

He rubbed a hand over his three day-old stubble and drummed his nicotine-stained fingers on the table. He brought a cigarette to his mouth and gripped it with his lips. He lit it and sat back, exhaling the smoke slowly, feeling the heat burn the back of his throat and the smoky taste cloy in his mouth. He tapped the ash into an empty glass and rubbed at his temples with his other hand. It was fair to say that by now, Seamus has sunk into the endless depths of depression, and was finding it rather difficult to climb out and paste that happy smile on his face once more. He seized the bottle of whisky from the table. Old Ogden's. A popular choice. He took a swig, and another, and another, feeling that familiar warm sensation spread into the pit of his stomach. He had loved her. He had fucking loved her and now she was gone.

He only hoped that Finch-Fletchley was repentant of his neglectful behaviour. Hannah Abbot, the bored, slightly bumbling housewife had been bored with her life. Everyday was the same monotonous routine, and it was so scheduled, that she could have predicted what would have happened next, or recounted her day without batting an eyelid. Hannah grew restless; she wanted fun; she wanted excitement. She wanted to be desired and not just receive the customary few sweaty grunts from her husband when they made love and for him to fall asleep afterward. So she had gone to a bar. And it was here she met Seamus. And Seamus had fallen in love with her. The way she combed and braided her hair so carefully, gently placing each strand in its designated place. The way she always touched a finger to her lip when she was worried. The way that when he had been upset, her maternal instinct had mothered him and made him happy once more. That fateful night she had told him she no longer could see him and she broke it off. Seamus remembered feeling the bottom drop out of his world. That precise moment, he could have the time down to the last second. She had told him. And he had left, angry, cursing, working himself up into a frenzy. And she had been murdered. It was only now he wished that he had told her that he loved her. He couldn't go on.

Seamus considered the motives. There was petrol, that was the one that took the most guts. There were pills, but what if he lost consciousness before he took enough and was rushed to hospital? Too risky. He didn't want to wind up talking to some shrink for the rest of his life about his "inner psyche" and be patronised everyday until the State deemed him safe enough to walk among society. What else was there? There was a gun, but that was a little messy; Seamus knew how hard it was to get a place to live in London and didn't want to deprive some poor family of a home, just for being so selfish as to kill himself. Besides, he didn't even have a gun. There was using a curse on himself, but what if the Muggle Police found his wand? There would be a lot of explaining to do then at the Ministry. There was slitting his wrists, his own throat even, but he had just had a new carpet fitted. Seamus was a thoughtful man. If someone described him, he was positive they would say "thoughtful" within the first few words. He didn't want to die slowly anyway. He needed a sharp exit, otherwise people might have said that he was attention-seeking if he was found before he was through.

So that left...Hanging. It was interesting how people were hanged, but dead meat was hung, he mused, whilst casting around the flat for some rope. The rock climbing rope. He picked up the rope, running it through his hands, feeling its abrasive woven texture. His fingers faltered as he searched the depths of his memory, trying to remember how to tie the noose. He pulled on the rope and looped it over a few times, creating his noose. He looped this over a rafter and slipped the noose over his head. He stood on a chair, trying to allay his racing heart. From his chair, he tied the rope securely over the rafter and let his arms drop limply to his sides. He stepped off of the chair, kicking it away and bending his legs so his feet could not touch the floor. At least the police would not get him now.

******

Draco led the way out of Azkaban, just as he had led the way in. Almost as soon as they were through the gates, a cellular phone began to ring insistently. Hermione put her briefcase down and scrabbled around in her handbag, whilst Draco checked the inner pocket of his suit. The cellular wasn't there. It shrilled on, disturbing the sombre silence of Azkaban Prison. Draco retrieved his phone from a pocket and flipped it open triumphantly. "Hello?" he asked, slightly irritably. There was no response from the other end and the ringing continued.

"Hello?" Hermione said into the cellular. Draco sheepishly tucked his cellular back into his pocket and coughed lightly. "Harry! How has your day been?" There was a tinny sound from the other end, which, try as he might, Draco could just not hear. "...Ron? Ron's there? He came back? When?" So, the Weasel was back. She sounded elated. As it had turned out, Ron had spent the summer abroad in France, for reasons, as far as Draco could tell, unfathomable. I don't even know why he came back, he thought with malice, it is said that you can live like a king there with the same amount of Wizard's currency, as a tramp here. And it meant he wasn't in the same country. Hermione was still jabbering excitedly into her cellular. Draco stepped up to her and looked pointedly at his watch. They only had one more visit for today, and then she could reminisce with the Weasel all she wanted. He gave her a long, hard stare for good measure, and she returned it icily and ended the call. They Disapparated from Azkaban. Hermione felt the familiar feeling, the strange pulling at her navel. They were back at the office.

"We have to go see Finnigan," Draco said tiredly and sank down into a chair gratefully.

"Well, we had better go now then," Hermione said, hoisting him back up again. "How are we going to get there? We can't Apparate; it's a Muggle neighbourhood."

"Yeah, I had that checked out. They attached his fire to the Floo network for a day," Draco responded, pushing his hair out of his eyes. "Thank Merlin it's the last call of the day."

Draco grabbed a pinch of Floo powder from the small pot on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. "Morecambe Terrace," he said and the green flames enveloped him. He coughed lightly as some soot flew into his mouth and stepped out of the fireplace of Seamus Finnigan's house, brushing the soot off of his suit. Hermione appeared from the grate behind him. And gasped very loudly. Draco looked up into the cold, glazed expression of a very dead Seamus. He brushed a little more soot off his suit and stepped forward, towards the body. Hermione hung back and he could hear her breathing raggedly. "Hermione, we have been trained for this you know," he shot lazily over his shoulder. The body was swinging slightly on the rope, making a creaking sound.

"Yes, but it's different when you come up close and the person is someone you once knew, you insensitive shit!" Hermione exclaimed hoarsely, her voice muffled behind her hand.

Finnigan's shoes clicked together lightly and his arms banged floppily against his sides. There was a purple indent around his neck where the rope had bruised his skin and rubbed into it. Draco snapped on a pair of rubber gloves and began to search the flat. "Come on, come on, we haven't got all night! I want to get home at some point!" he snapped. Hermione slowly moved to her briefcase with a vacant expression.

"He killed himself," she stated dumbly.

"Ten points for observation," Draco remarked, irritated. He continued his search of the small, modest living-room, unearthing very little. "It really smells in here, he lives like a tramp," he said, wrinkling his nose. Noticing Hermione's expression he said: "Lived. I meant to say lived." He continued his search, ending at the front door. He was searching amongst the various junk mail when he spotted an envelope, different from the rest. He picked it up. "Similar to yours?" he asked of Hermione, who was snapping on a pair of gloves. She paled. There came a scrabbling at the lock and Draco moved away from the door quickly.

"Seamus? You okay in there? I've brought you some dinner, some lovely chicken and mushroom pie, the one you really like--" This pause in the conversation was followed by a "Who the hell are you?" and then a scream and the sound of a plate presumably holding Seamus' dinner falling to the floor.

Draco and Hermione stood helplessly by the fireplace, eyes widening in shock. "We--" Draco started, but the woman cut him short.

"You be out of here! Get out!" she shouted angrily, her once soft Irish tones becoming grating and harsh.

Draco and Hermione held out their wands. "Obliviate!"