Come out to play

Chapter Four: Stalked

Hermione awoke suddenly, feeling disgusting. In an ideal world, she would have awoken peaceful and rested from an unbroken night's sleep with beautiful, straight, and un-bushy, she might hasten to add, hair. She would wander into the kitchen, still flushed from a luxurious bath, where Harry had not used all of the hot water and glide over to the cupboard. In the cupboard, there would be all of her favourite foods, and for once in her life, Harry would not have eaten all of the Cornflakes. After dawdling over breakfast and having an animated and happy chat with her favourite gay confidante, she would drift into her bedroom, where she would find clean, pressed and ironed clothes in their designated place: the wardrobe, and not on the floor, as standard. But, Hermione concluded with a sigh, life just was not like that. She swung her legs out of bed and immediately put her foot straight down on a few pieces of mouldy take-away pizza, which she had neglected to clear away from about a week or two ago. Hermione, whom in the past had been crowned the queen of tidiness and order, had now been demoted to court jester. Her living standards here made even Draco look tidy and much less of a slob.

Hermione mooched into the kitchens and to the cupboard where she and Harry kept the breakfast cereal. She opened it, with a faint glimmer of hope; the day could still be salvaged after all. The hope turned to happiness as she located the Cornflakes packet amongst the other empty boxes of cereal that had absentmindedly been put back into the cupboard. She frowned as she took it out; it felt suspiciously light. Hermione peered inside. Just enough for one bowl of Cornflakes. Take that, Harry! she thought to herself and poured the contents into a bowl. Grabbing the milk carton from the work-surface and a spoon from the drawer, Hermione sat herself down at the table with the Daily Prophet. Taking the milk carton, she popped the lid off and upended it over her cereal. Nothing came out of the milk carton but a list of expletives issued from Hermione's lips as she realised that Ron and Harry had used the last of the milk. She looked around the kitchen and into the sink, where she found two half-finished bowls of Cornflakes swimming in milk. She stomped back into her room to collect some clothes; thankfully, she had some clean this time and trudged to the bathroom. The sound of water running inside told her it was occupied and Hermione sank down onto the floor to wait, growing more and more irritated by the minute.

Presently the door opened and she stood up abruptly.

"About time, too. Some people have to get to work you know-" she started and looked up in surprise. It was Ron. And he looked good. Very, very good.

"'Mione! How have you been?" Ron exclaimed and wrapped his arms around her against his wet body in an exuberant embrace.

"Uh-" Hermione grunted in surprise, the breath having been knocked out of her. "I've been good, thanks, Ron. How have you been? What have you been doing all of this time? Why didn't you write?"

"Woah, calm down! One question at a time!" Ron said. "To answer your questions, then: good; doing work with Charlie and Dragons; the owls in France are temperamental."

Hermione laughed, still caught up in the hug of the towel-clad Ron. "So, what have you been up to, 'Mione?" Ron asked, stroking her bushy hair fondly.

"Well," Hermione started, "since you left, I got a job at the Ministry, in the Detective Sector. And at the moment, we're following up a Murder Investigation."

"Ah, yes, Harry mentioned something about that last night. He also mentioned that you had been receiving letters from the supposed killer?" He looked at her with concern in his eyes.

"Yes...But it's nothing." Hermione hastily lied, casting her eyes downwards. Bad idea, this gave her the chance to catch a glimpse of his pale, smooth torso, and she felt a blush start. "I've got to take a shower," she gabbled and pushed past a bemused Ron and into the bathroom.

******

Draco waited impatiently at the office, waiting for Hermione to show up. This happened every day: he got here on time and he was always still waiting for bloody Granger to show up. The letter that he had picked up for her this morning lay in front of him, red ink gracing the envelope. He had seen the same looping script before. He stared at it for a few more minutes, before finally concluding to open the letter and hide it. What she didn't know couldn't hurt her. He seized the envelope from the desk and tore it open. A letter and a few photographs drifted out and landed on his desk. First the letter:

YOU COULDN'T BE FARTHER OFF THE MARK, MUDBLOOD.

-SIGNED.

Draco read this with a small amount of alarm. True, it was not as threatening as the other letters she had received, but she was still being harassed. His attention turned to the photographs, of which there were three. The first was of Hermione and himself sitting in their small office. The second was of Hermione and himself having a drink, the night of Ernie Macmillan's demise. The third of just Hermione, looking harassed, standing by Ernie's body. They were being stalked, it seemed. The door opened, and Draco jumped violently, hurriedly shoving the photographs and letter behind his back. Not hurriedly enough, however.

"What's that?" asked Hermione and indicating the papers Draco had just attempted to conceal behind his back.

"What's what?" Draco asked brightly. "We have a lot to do today, and you were late, yet again. We have to interview Blaise-"

"Don't change the subject, Draco. I saw you put something behind your back," Hermione stated, giving him a pointed look.

"We all have secrets, Granger," sneered Draco, deliberately stressing the fact that he was using her surname.

"Yes, but when they include me, I prefer to know what they are," Hermione responded. "Now give me that."

Draco looked taken-aback. "How did you know it included you?" he asked, shocked.

Hermione smiled smugly and nodded to the ripped envelope on the desk, from which the letters 'Herm' were still clearly visible. "A good detective never misses anything," she chimed.

Draco sighed and handed her the letter and photographs. "I was trying to protect you," he muttered.

Hermione looked at him inquisitively over the letter. "Why would I need protection? They're just little pieces of paper, Draco. What's the worst that they can do? Bite me?" She snorted derisively and resumed reading the letter. "Where the hell did the killer get these from?" came the anxious voice a few moments later.

"I told you that you didn't want to see them," was Draco's only reply.

"I have to move out," Hermione said, not listening to Draco. "I can't stay where I am right now and put Harry and Ron in such danger."

Draco did one of the things that he knew he would regret sorely later on. "You could stay at mine," he offered tentatively.

Hermione looked up sharply, her expression changing from anxiety to disbelief and then gratitude. "You're sure?" she asked, in a quiet tone.

"Yes, I think so. As long as you don't hog all the hot water in the shower and share the chores," Draco said, resignedly and wondering what he was letting himself in for.

Hermione threw her arms around his neck in a sudden surge of gratitude. "Thanks, I really appreciate it," she said quietly.

******

Click.

The flash went off and the photograph came out, capturing the moment in time that Granger and Malfoy had just spent in total unity with each other. She waved the photo softly, waiting for it to develop and pasted it into her photograph album from her hiding place. She shifted her weight slightly and her boots squeaked as they rubbed together. Thinking of her next victim, she smiled a secret smile to herself, like that of a woman who knows she is pregnant and has yet to tell anyone. This would be fun.

******

Hermione followed Draco from the office in awkward silence. Her sudden burst of affection for him seemed to have made him feel very uncomfortable. She got into his car meekly with him, wondering vaguely why they didn't just Apparate, or use Floo. She laughed inwardly as Draco put on an expensive pair of sunglasses, before giving himself the once-over in the mirror. He turned to her quickly and flashed her a quick grin, before returning his eyes to the road. It had not escaped Hermione's attention that there was something different about him this morning. He seemed to have made more of an effort with his appearance than normal. And when she had embraced him, she thought that she could smell some spicy after-shave hastily splashed onto his neck. Draco must have noticed her regarding of him, as he turned to her:

"What?"

Hermione forced herself to meet his gaze. "What?" she asked.

Draco looked back to the road. "What were you looking at?"

"What?" inquired Hermione, adopting a confused tone to her voice.

"Never mind," Draco sighed.

Hermione riffled through her case notes and was under the pretence of reading them, whilst sneaking sideways glances. Yes, she concluded finally, something was definitely different.

*****

Draco pulled the car in next to the pavement and surveyed the surroundings critically. These were obviously the far poorer parts of London and the buildings, black with grime, contrasted starkly with the mottled grey and white sky. Boarded up windows dotted the squalid buildings and refuse sacks long forgotten littered the pavements. Amongst all this utter dereliction, Draco found himself thinking only one thing: I really don't want to leave the car; it might get stolen. Maybe if I could send Granger up by herself...

He shook the thought out of his head and locked the car. He walked slowly away from it, only once pausing to examine the remnants of a porn magazine, which were strewn all over the pavement. Making it look like he had to tie his shoe, he bent down for a closer look. He straightened and walked over to where Hermione was standing, on a grubby little porch. He examined the buttons for the intercom carefully. In this building lived: Greg McCabe, Yolande Speraza, Gem and Phil Hubb and Blaise Zabini. Draco pushed the button and the intercom crackled into life, displacing the eerie silence, which had pervaded the whole area.

A hoarse cough. "Yeah?"

Draco stepped forward, in order to speak into the intercom. "Detective Inspectors Malfoy and Granger."

"Oh, Christ, I knew you'd be around at some point," the voice husked. "You'd better come up."

The intercom buzzed and Draco pushed the door open. The smell of old piss and decay hit him at once and he turned away again, sucking in grateful gulps of stale city air, which was considerably less acrid. He turned back and decided to brave the stairwell, keeping a hand clamped over his mouth. Casting one last glance at his car, Draco ushered Hermione through the door and allowed it to swing shut. His expensively Italian shod feet clicked smartly and the echoes ricocheted from wall to wall. Hermione walked beside him, her mouth set in a grim line, her face ashen. They turned a corner and started up another flight of stairs.

"Why couldn't we have just taken the lift?" Draco muttered absently to himself.

Hermione gave him a sharp look. "Welcome to the working classes. The lowest of the low. Something you most likely will never have experienced. Here there is something for everyone: tramps, prostitutes, shoot-outs in the foremost streets, caesareans in side streets, drug dealings, petty thievery, and of course the not-so-petty thievery. Like expensive cars. All in all, a rollicking insight into how they live. They can't even afford proper housing, some of them, and it's amazing that this building hasn't been torched by wannabe arsonists yet. And in all this, you can't even muster up the strength to walk up a few flights of steps-"

Draco scowled, regretting his offer of putting Hermione up in his apartment already. "It was just a question," he muttered.

" 'Just a question,' you say? Well I've got 'just a question' for you. How much, on average do you give to charities in a year?"

Draco snorted. "This is ridiculous."

Hermione's eyes flashed with anger. "How much?" she demanded, stopping in front of him and looking him squarely in the eye. Brown locked with grey and engulfed it.

"Alright. Nothing," Draco admitted, holding up both hands.

"Well, if you had donated any money at all," Hermione hissed, "then we might have been able to take the lift!"

Draco frowned, trying to work out the evidently complex logic of the female brain. "I see..." he said, slowly.

"And anyway, what's worse: being stuck in an enclosed environment that reeks of piss, or walking up a stairwell that reeks of piss?" Hermione asked. "I thought so," said she, when he failed to give her a satisfactory reply.

******

Hermione rapped on Blaise's door smartly. After a few moments, the door opened. Just a crack at first, but then it widened once she recognised the faces. Hermione flashed her identification card, just for good measure.

"I am Detective Inspector Granger, and this is my colleague Detective Inspector Malfoy. We would like to speak to you concerning the death of Mr. Ernie Macmillan. May we come in?"

Blaise nodded and stepped away from the door to let them in. "Just so we're clear; I don't know nothin'. Nothin' at all. All I know is what I saw," she stated and shut the door after them, taking care to replace several bolts and chains.

Hermione scrutinised the room with distaste. It had not, in any event, occurred to her how fortunate she was to live in her cushy apartment on the other side of London. Mismatched furniture lined the room: an orange sofa lay at one end and a brown armchair at the other. Between the two lay a patchy sisal rug, and Hermione couldn't remember seeing any pieces of décor as unattractive. A plastic patio table sat in the middle of this and somehow seemed to fit in with the other outlandish hand-me-down furniture. Blaise invited them to sit down, and Hermione crossed to the orange sofa, taking care to avoid dubious stains on the lino. Draco followed her and Blaise settled herself in the armchair. There was an uncomfortable silence.

"So, nice place you have here," Draco lied, unconvincingly.

Blaise scowled and patted her pockets, looking for something. With a smile of triumph, she pulled out a packet of cigarettes and took one from the packet. This she put in her mouth and lit it with a book of matches which looked like they had been pilfered from a restaurant. Exhaling smoke, she eyed Draco and spoke. "Don't lie, Draco. You and I and Granger all know it's a total shit-hole." She took a long drag of her cigarette and tapped the ash into a plastic bowl on the table with nails painted blood red. "Is this just a social call, or are you going to interview me? I've got stuff I could be doing right now," she barked and scowled.

Hermione couldn't remember ever seeing Blaise in such a state; her eyes were bloodshot, her skin had a mottled, yellow look about it and she seemed desperately thin. At Hogwarts, Blaise had always been the belle of Slytherin; a position envied and vied for by most girls of the house. Hermione wondered what had gone wrong as she surveyed the depressed, young woman in front of her who had been vivacious once. She cleared her throat. "Ms. Zabini, we've come to talk to you about the night Mr. Ernie Macmillan died-" Hermione started.

"Yeah, you've already said that. I haven't got all day. Get on with it," Blaise growled.

"If we could just put all our animosity from school behind us, please," Hermione said, her voice hardening. "If you co-operate then we might just be able to clear you from our list of suspects, so I think it is well within your interest."

Draco reached in his pocket and brought out a packet of cigarettes. "Do you mind?" he asked Blaise, knowing it was a silly thing to ask. Blaise shook her head and Draco took a cigarette of the packet and lit it. Hermione looked at the cigarettes longingly. Just one, the voice was saying in her head, just one won't hurt, will it? She took one of the proffered cigarettes and lit it up, using Draco's lighter and ignoring Draco's look of mild surprise. "Blaise, all we are here to do is strike you off our list of suspects. All you need is an alibi and someone who will confirm it for you. And if it's licit, then we will stop hounding you, okay?"

Blaise nodded, taking another drag on her cigarette. "I'll tell you what I can," she said, her gaze softening under Draco's.

"First, we need to ascertain what you were doing at the time of the murder. Where were you? Presumably you were in Diagon Alley, or thereabouts?"

Blaise inclined her head slightly, whilst tapping ash into the bowl. "Yes," she said simply. She did not elaborate.

Hermione leaned forward, "Care to expand, Blaise? What were you doing in Diagon Alley?"

"I was having a drink with some friends, in a pub just off Gringotts," Blaise said after a pregnant pause.

"And this pub would be...?" asked Hermione, taking a few notes.

"The Holly and Phoenix Feather," Blaise replied without a moment's hesitation.

Draco smiled reassuringly. "Who can we contact to double check your story?"

Blaise thought for a moment and got up from the chair. She crossed to the kitchen counter, tottering on her heels. Hermione could sense Draco's gaze following Blaise's behind and looking in admiration at the several yards of bronzed leg on show. She bent over the kitchen counter, skirt just covering those parts which should be left to the imagination and she picked up a lipstick and what looked like a menu from the local takeaway. Presently, she returned to the makeshift living room and handed Draco the takeaway menu. On it was scribbled a number in fiery red lipstick.

"Call him. His name's Antonio, but he likes to be called Tony. He'll verify my story."

"Now turning to the matter of Ernie's death. Did you see anything in particular? Anything suspicious?" Draco asked, stubbing out his cigarette in the bowl.

"I came around the corner and he was just lying there. He was kind of gurgling a bit. There was no one else there that I can remember," Blaise said, sighing.

Hermione exhaled loudly. It seemed to be all they were going to get from her right now. She looked at Draco and unspoken messages passed between them.

Shall we go? I think we are done here.

I'm not going to stand up unless she stands up; I will not look stupid.

Hermione stood up slowly and Draco followed. "Thank-you, Blaise. We may need to talk to you again. If you remember anything, do not hesitate to call," said Draco, and handed her a business card.

******

And here she stood, outside the Three Broomsticks, waiting for the protagonist of the scene. She knew the woman would turn up. It was Friday night; everyone was entitled to a break from the hustle and bustle of school life every so often. Standing in the shadows, the woman watched impassively as a huddle of people hurried into the Three Broomsticks, chattering brightly amongst themselves. She fingered the rope with gloved hands once before slipping it into her robes. It was bitingly cold and the chill air caressed her cheeks with icy fingers. Tucking her hair away into the depths of her hood, she crossed to the tavern. She pulled open the heavy oak door and was met by fiercely bright lights and loud, incessant, raucous chatter. How it irked her down to the very bones. All this merriment, all this happiness made her want to slit her wrists. She ground her teeth and pushed her way through the throng of people at the bar, all of whom who were waving moneybags and shouting orders.

She would be the first to admit she had a somewhat angst-ridden disposition. She hated cheer, she hated mirth, she hated more than anything, the sound of laughter. Purely because she was not able to laugh. She wished she could inflict a day of just being her to anyone, just to let them experience how she thought. For another person to spend a day alone with her thoughts, and try to make sense of them. But this could never happen. The façade she had nurtured for years had never once slipped, she was extrmely watchful of that. And the only time that she was herself was when she was alone. When she could let that smile that had been etched onto her face for the whole day, fade and become a mere shadow. And ironically, that was the time she was happiest, alone with her forever-tormenting thoughts that chased each other in a vicious circle around her head.

She couldn't tell anyone the source of her pain; she didn't even like to tell herself why it was that she languished in her room and slice at her wrists when it all got on top of her. Why she mostly wore black and avoided eating. Why she wrote angst-ridden prose and poetry and why she would go up to her art studio, which was long forgotten and slash at those paintings, the ones she had created out of love and geniality. It was fair to say she was in agony over something not even her sub-conscious could understand.

She had tried holding her breath once, just to see how far she could go. She held it until she went red. Then blue, then purple. Until the crushing feeling at the back of her windpipe could be endured no more and she passed out. She'd even hacked at her wrists and lain in the bathtub, just to end her own suffering. It hadn't occurred to her that suicide was selfish. She had been found and was rushed to hospital. They put it down to a kitchen accident, which was what she had told them. But this was not a time to reminisce. There was something she had to do.

Head down, she peered from inside her large hood and located her target, the subject of today's little jaunt. She sat down at a table, hidden from view, but with a vantage point so she could see her prospective "client" as it were. Now it was just a matter of waiting. She seemed to do a lot of this, she knew. Always waiting. Unable to resist, with a sort of morbid curiosity, she slipped her hand into her pocket and fingered the hirsute coil again. She didn't know how long she would be here for; just as long as it took. She knew her target would have to get up at some point.

And now her thoughts turned to what preoccupied her the most: her depression. Suicide, she knew, was not the answer here. She had to make a stir, cause a commotion. All she wanted was a little compassion. Someone to just show they gave a damn about her. She knew -

But it was time to stop pondering again. Her target was rising from her seat and heading towards the lavatories. Now, it was her turn to play, it was her turn to have a little fun.

She followed the older woman into the lavatories. Nobody would notice, nor would they particularly be troubled; the lavatories were not an uncommon place to go. She grasped the door handle and pulled. She moved swiftly, letting the door shut with a muffled click. Pulling her wand out of her sleeve, she muttered a locking charm and a silencing charm, just in case. She couldn't take any chances. She waited until she heard the sound of a bolt being drawn across and walked serenely into the cubicle next door, closing the door behind her. And now she had to wait again. She waited until she heard the dragging sound of a bolt being drawn back and the slight protesting squeak of un-oiled hinges. And then she stepped out, her heavy boots thunking on the lino tiles, her posture dominating. Brandishing the rope, she stood behind the teacher, the one they called McGonagall, or in more familiar terms, McTabby. She was taller than the bird-like woman by a long shot. McGonagall looked up from her place at the sink to see the figure swathed in black before her and the taller of the two nodded her head slightly in satisfaction. She raised the rope and looped it around the slender neck of McGonagall. She looped it around again, and pulled hard, crushing her throat. McGonagall's eyes boggled momentarily. She flailed wildly with her hands, but did not make a sound. The blood vessels began to break in her eyes, turning her eyes a fierce red colour. Minerva clutched at her throat, trying to delay the inevitable. The woman yanked once more on the rope, crushing her windpipe. The life faded from Minerva McGonagall. And the woman, now panting from her exertions, was disappointed. Disappointed that the woman had not screamed, not sworn, not fought very hard. All she had done was given her an understanding look. She knew.