the end of the endless nothing
For the most part this killing was just like all the others. Throat torn to ribbons, visible fang puncture wounds, small cuts to the wrists, and bruising from rope burn.
“I don’t see why this required me to come in person,” Hermione grimaced, carefully stepping to avoid the mess, “Write the report, inform the family, release the standard to the press.”
“Wait,” Dean’s breath was visible in the November air. He held up one hand and with the other delicately peeled the blood-soaked shirt up with a pen. Carved shakily into the flesh was a message obscured by pooling blood, the scratchy cursive intelligible. One of the other aurors on the scene handed him a towel. Gently, as though the dead woman would feel pain from his touch, he cleaned the blood away to reveal,
Tu te Souviens Claudia
“This stays out of the papers.” Hermione looked to the other investigators at the scene, “And if I read a damn word of any of this in the prophet,” She paused, “I’ll carve some choice words into you myself.”
The aurors, cleaners, and various assistants nodded solemnly. The spree had taken a toll on all of them. Looking down at the pavement Hermione sighed, the rock was going to stain red.
The killings had begun seven months ago. Vampires had been quiet in the British Isles for years. There had been a slight increase during both wars but aside from the individuals who had aligned themselves with Voldemort the bloodsuckers had remained relegated to the shadows. The few monsters that had killed in muggle society had been put down in a matter of days and with general ease.
This new killer had been different. Not just killing in muggle dominated areas but had managed to find its way into the apartments of Diagon alley, the protected homes of high society purebloods, and anywhere that made it clear that vampires were not welcome. Hermione’s aurors had no luck in their tracking of the beast. All of their typical location or historical restoration spells had proven useless, and they had acquired precisely zero leads. The one trail they had uncovered only led them to more bodies and no surviving witnesses. The whole thing had become rather rehearsed. A call was intercepted from muggle first responders or sent to the aurors offices, her crew arrived on the scene, attempted what little protocol they had left, and made well wishes to the family.
Staring at the ever growing stack of files on her desk, Hermione found little solace or desire to “go through the facts again.” None of the details revealed anything useful. The creature liked beautiful victims. Prostitutes, drunks, soft skinned young men, musicians who had been loathed by reviewers, men in their fifties who had just begun to grey, and women with long hair. Its placing of the bodies was intentional. Some in public places like tube stations or museum steps. Others abandoned in private residences, propped up at desks and dining tables as if they were still living. According to all of her research vampires usually fed once or twice per week. There had been twenty-five victims over the span of half a year. Nowhere near enough bodies accounted for. The creature had a way of disposing of corpses.
The victims we found were the victims it wanted us to find. She sighed.
“Tu te souviens Claudia,”
Hermione traced the scene photograph with her pen. Her hand lingering over the name.
“Well, we know one thing. It’s French.” she said to no one in particular.
****
“Today I come to you with a heavy heart. As we all know London has been plagued with a series of vampiric killings. As I was informed this morning, we have confirmed the latest victim’s identity to be Ellora Almstead aged thirty four. At this time the family is requesting privacy and prayer.”
The eruption of question and camera flashes was expected but ever overstimulating. After the initial flurry had slowed enough to where the questions were audible Hermione pointed into the crowd. She cared little about who had been picked. All of the questions would be the same regardless of the reporter.
“These murders have been under investigation for the better part of a year. How can you justify the lack of answers for these grieving families?” the man rushed through his question panting and out of breath.
“We are not at liberty to release details on our investigative processes. However, I can assure everyone we are doing everything we can on this matter.” The answer was rehearsed and was of little substance. Hermione pointed back to the crowd.
“This is your first year as deputy of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, as many believe that this is a stepping stone in your career to the larger ministry, why should society have any confidence in your ability when under your control such killings have taken place? And is this a concern for you in your political career?”
“I would like to remind everyone that there is a family here that has lost someone,” she had the exact same concerns. Few would be likely to put their support behind a minister with a death toll, “That this is not a time for politics but a time for remembrance. A time to hold our own loved ones close and keep ourselves safe.” At this point the only way this wouldn’t destroy her career is if the thing was caught soon or someone else in the ministry made an incalculably stupid mistake. And it wouldn’t do to look capable in comparison. She pointed to the crowd.
“In 1963 the Hanoi protocol was put into place by the department to handle threats of vampiric nature. Since the protocol's implementation almost every vampire killing was solved and the creature apprehended within a matter of days. Not months. Why is this any different? Why is the Hanoi protocol not being used?”
“We have been implementing the Hanoi protocol, however unlike typical cases we are not yielding the same results. Currently we are developing a variation that shows promise however, I am unable to divulge what those changes will be.”
She pointed to the crowd. They asked, she dodged giving answers. They repeated the same questions that they all had been wondering for months, she feigned the idea of development. They took photos, she did her best to convey strength and intelligence. The reports promised to be scathing.
***
“Sometimes I reckon the reporters think we’re stupid.” Dean griped sipping on a coffee, “As though we haven’t gone through the correct protocols. As if we’ve decided to wait and see what it wishes to do next.”
“Uh huh,” Hermione nodded, flipping through the archive's catalogs.
“Of course we tried the Hanoi. What do they think we’ve been doing? Finger painting?”
“Oh completely of course,” she replied, eyes scanning the pages in front of her. Taking quick notes on a scrap of parchment.
Dean leaned across the table and slapped his hand onto the page blocking her view and forcing her to look at him.
“Come on, I’m engaging in the post-press-conference-bitch, what are you looking for?”
“Well,” she smacked his hand away, “Since you are incapable of asking politely, I’m looking through the catalog.”
“Yeah I can see tha-”
“One of the good things about vampires is that while they are killers, they still have minds. And many of them still operate as people. They leave things behind. Diaries, annotated books, a signed poster of Nosferatu. So, I am checking if we have any artifacts from France or that are written in French. Since they’re immortal the dates are irrelevant, as are the names of the items' original owners.”
“Bloodsuckers get to know bloodsuckers. All you need is one that knows the right one.”
“Or knew.” She stood from her desk, looking at the parchment in her hands.
Leaving her office and weaving through the grid of desks piled high with parchments, she could feel the eyes on her. Magical creatures had suffered damages to their reputation and the stress had affected the entire staff. Finally she stopped at the desk of Bilal Pasha. He had been a Slytherin two years above her in Hogwarts and it was fairly obvious he believed she had received her position based upon reputation and not skill. However, he was reliable and diligent and she had come to appreciate his disdain as he was frequently a rare voice of dissent to her ideas.
“I need these items pulled from the archives,” she said, handing him the note, “You can take who you want. It would take too much time on your own.”
Bilal scanned the list with the intentionality she rarely saw in people other than herself.
“A French vampire that knows a Claudia might know other French vampires,” He smiled, “Most of the wizards who know French happen to be pureblooded,” he glanced up at her with just the slightest hint of disdain, “Would that be an amenable group for you?”
“Never needed much explaining did you. And I said, "take whoever you please.”
“I think it's Whomever,” he replied, his voice sweet.
Hermione turned to walk away. As much as she appreciated his diligence, he was still an arrogant pureblood.
“Actually,” she paused without turning back to face him, “You should take Leonara too. On her resume she mentioned she speaks French and Arabic.” Leonara was also a muggleborn, and as much as Hermione hated to admit it, she wanted someone to balance out Bilal’s pureblooded cohort.
****
Stepping through the door into the warm yellow light of their apartment Hermione was greeted with the smell of roasted chicken and potatoes. While he would never admit it, Ron had gotten into the habit of cooking her favorite meals after the killings hit the news. He would take her bag and stash it away to force her to take a break from working, kiss her on the cheek, and regale her with stories from Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.
Today was no different. The chicken was golden with cracking skin with juicy white flesh, seasoned with rosemary, thyme, salt, and whatever else. Potatoes rich and filling, bursting with steam when cut open. Ron had made a spinach salad with strawberries and bright red tomatoes, drizzled with homemade dressing. Hermione could barely resist stuffing her face and was more than content to let her fiancé ramble on.
“So, besides my wonderful dinner, which you have yet to thank me for,” he said with a smile, “What have you eaten today?”
“You know I’m always grateful. But thank you.”
“So…”
“That's not relevant to anything.”
“Ah,” he sipped his water, “Coffee and Toast. Good to know.”
For the first time all day Hermione smiled.
“Are we doing anything tonight? Harry said he was thinking of going to the pub. Might be fun?”
“Ugh, I wish.” She lied, “I have some guys working in the archives right now and I can’t have them thinking I pass off work on them to go drinking.”
“Having subordinates so you can go out drinking is the point of having subordinates.” Ron joked. He paused looking at her. She never quite knew what to make of the look. Like he was trying to read her mind and like he just liked the look of her. “You know, if you ever wanted to talk about it-”
“And say?”
He rolled his eyes, “You know I actually have considerable experiences fighting dark magic. Like nationally awarded experience fighting dark magic.”
That was worth considering. While his recent endeavors entailed catching teenage shoplifters and making fart bombs, Ron was at one point a soldier. And a successful one at that.
“The bastard is French.”
Quietly she explained the events of the last sixteen hours. It was a blatant violation of confidentiality and she would have flayed any of her employees that told such things to their partners. But Ron had a point, and she trusted him as easily as she breathed. Hermione explained the adapted protocol they were attempting on their latest victim, the carving on the poor woman's torso, and Bilal’s task in the archives.
“You want me to go out and buy you a copy of Daniel Malloy’s?”
“Oh God, don’t even joke about that stupid book.”
“What?” he asked with mock offense, “I mean I know he said that all of the names had been changed and that half of the crap he wrote was bullshite but-”
“More like most of it.”
“Oh come on, it's been linked to dozens of actual murders in New Orleans and Paris. Plus, the guy wrote about things never released to the press.”
“So he’s a muggle that’s good at research and made a couple of lucky guesses. He also said that vampires can fly, read minds, and regularly have orgies.”
“Firstly, The Theatre de Vampire was a real place that burned down, and secondly half of the suckers in the book were French.”
As much as she hated to admit it, Daniel Malloy had, in between wild exaggerations, told the truth. The entire novel had been a nightmare for the Department of Muggle Affairs. The novel had been published by an American company, so their safeguards hadn’t known about the book’s existence until too late and no amount of questioning from the American wizards had been able to explain how they had missed it as well. The entire account put the statue of secrecy at the highest risk in decades. Thankfully, Malloy had not mentioned or acknowledged the existence of wizarding society. The ministry had tried to convince the public that Malloy simply had no knowledge of magic aside from that of the undead. However, any attempts by the ministry or their American counterparts to contact the author had been concerningly unsuccessful. Malloy’s account (with altered names because apparently, he valued the anonymity of the undead mass murderer.) raised the question in the minds of millions, “If vampires might be real what else is out there?”
Most witches and wizards had taken the book to be evidence of magical superiority. That Malloy’s vampire hadn’t recalled killing any in their society because witches and wizards were simply too talented. The magical protections had worked so well that this network of secret covens, undead children, and ravenous demons had simply no ability to kill them. Muggles were simply prey to the vampire; lambs primed for the slaughter. The wizard was a step above. A higher species.
“Honestly it's not the worst idea you’ve ever had.” Hermione smiled, “I just don’t know how useful a book could be when the bulk of its vampire biology and behaviorisms was dismissed by every leading researcher. Plus,” Hermione put on her best American accent, “Well I had to change the damn names O’Brian, I can’t have those yellow eyed fuckers crawling through my window for telling the whole world they’re a bunch of queens with an ego problem.”
Ron laughed. Telling him hadn’t been a bad idea at all.
****
Despite the warmth of their blankets and the reassuring rhythm of Ron’s breathing, Hermione could tell that sleep would not come easily. There was that ever present pulling on her mind that blurred into a pounding in her chest and a shakiness in her hands. Like something inside her was pulling her forwards. It was not just her anger or grief towards the victims or that fear of everything she had worked for slipping away, it was that feeling that had followed her all throughout her time at Hogwarts and through the war. That feeling that had driven her to spend hours reading to the point of nausea and writing out every detail in her head till she felt pain in her fingers. That gnawing frustration of missing details. That sense that if she were simply a little bit more clever someone would still be alive. That sensation of something being just out of focus, that she was meant to be the one to pull it into view.
Taking care not to stir Ron, Hermione slid out of bed and quietly dressed herself in muggle clothing. Something warm that neither wizards nor muggles would view as out of place. Shoes she could run in. She slipped her wand up her sleeve and darted out into the night.
At first Hermione tried to convince herself that she would just be taking a walk. Something quick to clear her head. But the truth was she had never intended to go anywhere but back to the crime scene.
This body had been dumped a mere stone’s throw from the entrance to Diagon Alley. As if to beckon both wizards and muggles to the scene. To make both societies aware. There was no avoiding it. Any witch that wished to go shopping would walk past the taped-up street corner. Any wizard that needed to go to work would find themselves glancing at the rust-stained concrete. That sense of security Malloy’s novel had provided was shattered.
Examining the scene under the moonlight offered a different perspective than Hermione had expected. The killing and display must have happened at night. This street now lit by lamps and the waning moon would have been how Ellora had seen it. The shops might have been a little bit busier without the crowds scared away by a serial killer, but these were the cabs she might have tried to wave down for help, this was the sky under which she had met her death.
From the volume of bleeding on her stomach, the examiners from the Department of Law Enforcement believed she had been cut before she died. It seemed wasteful. Either the thing wasn’t starving when it killed her, or it had more than one plan last night.
Then, a hiss, a click, and the faint smell of a cigarette.
Hermione straightened her back and slowly turned, doing her best to not appear startled.
“Late night?” She asked strolling over to the figure. No, to the young man who was leaned against the wall. He looked at her without any expression, then, as if she had finally said the correct thing, smiled.
“This time of year, they’ll only get longer.” the young man inhaled deeply sucking on the little cancer stick. He exhaled slowly, relishing the release, the streetlight tangling in the smoke.
“I know the local uni students have made a game of this,” Hermione waved her hand through the air, “But you do not have clearance to be here. Do what’s best for yourself and go home.”
He pulled another cigarette out of the box and held it out to her. Seeing her expression he slowly retracted his hand and put it back in the box. Laughing between puffs of smoke.
“I am here,” he held the cigarette in his mouth between two fingers and pulled it from his lips, “because this,” he gestured the same way she had, “interests me. No games.” The red embers seemed to swirl and crackle in the air.
“A woman died yesterday. Someone with a family, and it wasn’t for your entertainment-”
“You find it interesting too.” he interrupted her, the boy couldn’t have been older than twenty. A slender build, dark tan skin, a tall nose, and curly black hair that fell to his chin.
“You find it interesting because,” he continued, “For all of your brilliance and all of your pride, you’re failing. And that-” he pointed at her with his cigarette, “interests you.”
Hermione loosened her wand from her sleeve and gripped it tightly. The wood was warm and reassuring in her palm. Slowly she inhaled, feeling the magic within her flow into her instrument and back into herself. Whoever this man was didn’t matter. She was not some small matter.
“I would be careful. It’s a dangerous time to be out late.” She smiled at him. She was his senior by several years at least and had more experience at twenty-four than most acquired in a lifetime. Just some college kid who thinks that he’s an amateur detective.
“I’d like to prove you wrong.”
“Excuse me-”
“Hermione Granger, companion to the savior of the wizarding world, the brightest witch of her age. It is a true pleasure to meet you.” the stranger extended his hand, “My name is Armand. And it would be my honor to help you.”
Against her better judgment, she shook his hand, His grasp was stronger than he looked.