Harrow

13 October 2014 

Extract from The Quibbler.

“THE REAPER” STRIKES AGAIN - WRACKSPURTS TO BLAME?

On Saturday morning, at approximately six o’clock, a chilling discovery sent shockwaves through Knockturn Alley. Horace Slughorn, esteemed proprietor of Slugs and Jiggers, stumbled upon a gruesome scene — the lifeless body of a woman, her chest savagely torn open, sprawled across the cold cobblestones.

Authorities arrived swiftly, with Aurors sealing off the area and launching an investigation into what they now suspect to be a murder steeped in dark magic. Preliminary reports confirm the presence of residual magical traces lingering on the victim’s remains — sinister evidence that has only deepened the mystery surrounding her death.

Speculation ripples through the wizarding community, with theories ranging from a botched magical ritual to the mind-numbing effects of wrackspurts–


14 October 2014

Extract from the Daily Prophet.

HOW MANY MORE VICTIMS? by Rita Skeeter. 

Amelia Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, has remained conspicuously silent on the Auror Department's glaring failures. Whether due to internal discord or sheer ineptitude, the outcome remains unchanged: a brutal murderer roams free, unchallenged, continuing his reign of terror. The Ministry of Magic's inability to act decisively has not only emboldened the perpetrator but has also sown fear and distrust among the public. How many more victims must fall before those in power acknowledge their catastrophic missteps? 

14 October 2014

Extract from The Londoner 

HELP SOUGHT AS AURORS ADMIT DEFEAT by Theo Lancaster. 

After a string of appalling blunders, the Auror Department has turned to outside help in a desperate bid to catch the notorious serial killer known only as The Reaper. The Londoner can confirm — with strict adherence to fact — that the chosen aid comes in the form of the once-renowned Inspector Evans. His reputation for solving the most fiendish of crimes precedes him, igniting cautious hope despite the abrupt and mysterious end to his once-promising career…

Yet, whispers from an anonymous source hint at stains on Mr. Evans' record, suggesting he is not only troubled but troubling–

     Tom Riddle slides his fingers off the photograph in the newspaper. Someone is knocking on his office door — sharp, incessant raps that feel like they're hammering against his skull.

A quick tempus charm. Twelve minutes until six. The tapping resumes, more insistent this time.

“Sir,” a voice calls from beyond the door. “Apologies for the interruption, but Mrs. Lestrange is here.”

She’s early—inevitably so—in that neurotic, overanxious way of hers. The constant need to hover at the edge of his approval is as tedious as it is predictable. Still, his tone betrays nothing, not the flicker of irritation nor the disruption of his thoughts.

“If you would show her into the consulting room,” he says, smooth as glass. “I’ll be with her shortly.”

Eleven minutes. That’s all he has. The article sinks its teeth back into him the moment the words leave his mouth. 

Harrison Evans refuses to look at the camera. There’s none of the quiet triumph you’d expect from a man who’s carved a name from dissecting the macabre. His expression holds no satisfaction. Just a tautness at the corners of his mouth, a flicker of defiance in the tilt of his jaw, and a furrow etched deep between his brows.

He looks like he doesn't want to be there. And yet, he stands with an air of self-possession coiled around him.

Tom stretches his long legs out in front of him, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. There’s something about Harrison Evans — something that tugs at the edges of Tom's thoughts. He isn’t exactly fascinated, but as he reads the text for the third time, it burrows into his mind.

His time is up. Tom rises, the weight of his thoughts pressing on him as he straightens his coat.

He allows himself one final glance at the photograph before stepping away from the quiet comfort of his study.

     It takes her over a month, two exasperating trips to the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, and a begrudging concession before they lend her an enchanted fan– if only to be rid of her.  

The fan stirs the room’s heavy air, lifting dust motes into icy swirls that sting the skin. Rita Skeeter privately admits it’s far simpler to temper its icy outbursts than to cast cooling charms on herself every twenty minutes.

A note pinned to the wall flutters in the breeze each time it passes. Rise of the Reaper? it reads, the letters trembling in time with the fan’s steady hum. Five years ago, the headline had sent their more credulous readers into a brief, delicious panic—enough to pull her from the cramped backroom down the hall and place her here. Hardly a grand office, but hers.

The poster flutters again, and Rita’s smile sharpens, the memory twisting into smug satisfaction.

"I wasn’t aware I said anything amusing," snaps Barnabas Cuffe. The editor in chief stands in front of her desk, red in the face and looking down at her as though he wants to fire her. 

He won't though. Her name’s already glinting sharply on the insultingly tiny plaque of the front door. "No, sir."

"Then how is it," he snarls, "that The Londoner gets a photograph and news of his reinstatement, and The Daily Prophet doesn’t? Explain it to me, Skeeter."

He gives the newspaper an impatient shake, and she merely shrugs. The fan spins, lazily.. The poster curls around the edges. Cuffe pauses, inspecting the picture with a critical eye. 

"He’s rather handsome, isn’t he? His suspension must’ve done him good.”

Rita scoffs, the bitterness of her own appearance lingering in the sharpness of her tone. 'I suppose,' she finally concedes.

"Well, that makes him more profitable," he adds, his voice tinged with warning. "Witches already love him."

He brandishes the photograph in Rita’s face, and she sneers, wishing she could throttle both Cuffe and Evans. The recent spate of murders has been sensational for sales, and Rita is determined to keep it that way, without relying on sharp cheekbones and pretty green eyes.

"He couldn’t solve the case five years ago," Rita says bluntly, almost daring him to contradict her. "The public will grow bored of him in a week, regardless of his face."

“So find something else then. I’ll be damned if Fenton keeps upselling us.”

She taps her fan with her wand to halt the light snow that’s begun to splutter out, though the dropping temperature is always her greatest ally in getting Cuffe to leave and torment someone else. “There is something, though the rumours might be exaggerated.” 

“The truth is Evans’ problem, not ours.” Cuffe squints as though imagining the headlines. “Just write ‘allegedly’ and we’re on firm legal ground.”

Rita watches him go, her smile sweetly innocent, then turns her gaze back to the copy of The Londoner left on her desk. 

She places a finger over the picture of Evans’s face, dragging it through the melted snow. When she pulls her hand away, her fingers are damp with ink, and the inspector's face is obscured beneath a black smear.