Muggleborn Family
Harry was not happy. Not one bit.
How stupid did Malfoy have to be to deny Auror protection? How could he not take something like this seriously? Didn't he understand that his life might be on the line?
Harry tried not to let it bother him when Malfoy kicked him and Ron out of the house without signing the request form. He got back to the Ministry to punch out and went right to his flat in Diagon, tossing a pile of unfinished paperwork onto his desk, peeling off his work robes, and microwaving some leftovers from the icebox.
When he peeled back the adhesive foil of the box dinner, releasing the sour and rotten stench of old, soggy greens and aged cheese. Harry found himself with the urge to vomit, and tossed it in the trash, swapping dinner out for a glass and some Firewhiskey.
He sat down on his sofa with a sigh, throwing his head back an closing his eyes, his drink close at hand, and tried to decompress.
Why, why haven’t I figured this out, yet? Why can’t I stop people from dying? The weight of his failure was weighing him down. He felt no relief, no pride in any of his actions. He simply felt shame. Shame over his ineptitude to solve the case.
At least three bodies now, three mutilated, absolutely destroyed bodies, left to rot for us to find, almost as though the murderer wants to make a show of it.
And even after Draco Malfoy’s girlfriend becomes the latest in a string of victims, he still denies protection.
Harry can’t shake the feeling that he’s going to be the next victim.
Harry found the initial glass he’d served himself was empty, and he decided to accio the bottle over to him, pouring another glass.
Another terrible, gruesome murder. Another innocent life he couldn’t save. Another, and another,
and another… When they’d gotten the report of suspicious activity he didn’t think he’d find Astoria Greengrass slashed up in an abandoned warehouse.
And they weren’t getting any closer than they were when Pansy Parkinson, the first murdered, was found. What they thought was a one-off tragedy was quickly turning into a connected mass conspiracy coupled with absolute, utter hopelessness, to Harry.
Harry tossed back another drink, the bottle quickly losing volume.
And just when he’d decided he wanted to quit, too. How convenient.
At least he hadn’t told anybody of his plans. He hadn’t even requested the forms for his two weeks notice. Kingsley would have asked too many questions.
It didn’t take long for Harry to get absolutely sloshed.
He'd make Harry feel guilty enough to stay. Harry had to get Terry Boot to pick up an extra copy when he had quit six months ago. Terry Boot moved on to become a healer. Harry doesn't know what job he would get when he quit. Did he even need a job? He has more money than he knows what to do with, anyway.
What wanker can't even last one year doing a job that he was basically born to do?
Harry fell into a fitful sleep on the couch that night, and he woke up the next morning feeling no better as he dragged his feet to the Auror offices.
There was no Owl from Malfoy.
Harry had hoped that Malfoy might come to his senses by morning. Why was he even so bothered by this, anyway?
Three more days passed until Harry found it just infuriating that Malfoy was seemingly still stupid enough to not request protection. Especially when Ron came busting into the office with word of a dead body found in one family's basement, which seemingly appeared there while they were on holiday. Harry sprang up from his desk, only one thing on his mind. What if it was Malfoy?
Ron, Mordecai, and Harry apparated to the scene promptly, landing in front of a house where a scared family stood, faces crumpling with relief when they found the three Aurors. Mordecai was quick to approach and address the shaken family. Ron and Harry headed inside, wands out and on the defensive.
"They reported the body was in the basement?"
"Yes, but by the smell of it, we must be close."
Harry peered around the dimly lit home, quiet and seemingly untouched. The two of them cast a Lumos, continuing cautiously. The sitting room was quaint. Pictures lined the cream-colored walls, filled with the image of a happy, innocent family. Why did this man choose to murder someone in somebody else's home? Harry's brain was reeling with questions, drenched to the bone with apprehension. The floors creaked beneath him and Ron with every step, and the smell of rot only grew stronger. Past the sitting room was a hallway. Constant Vigilance, the phrase echoed through their brains in Mad-Eye's voice. Except now it didn't sound born out of paranoia. Harry especially felt that it was warranted, given now he knew what it was like living in constant danger, constantly hunting down the next psychopath.
"You take left, I take right."
Harry nodded at Ron, going to the left. "Call out if you find them."
To the left was the kitchen. Very small, not meant for more than one person, truly. All that could be heard was the soft hum of the icebox and Harry's slow, creaking steps. Dust lined the counters, and silently, he wondered how long this family's holiday was. Just as Harry was about to turn around and look for Ron to the right, he noticed it. Looked over if it weren't for the distinct lack of dust in one square on the counter. Harry furrowed his brows, using his wand to open the drawers in the kitchen. A distinct creak made him quickly look over his shoulder. Nothing. Harry turned back over to the drawers, scanning over their contents, and, just as he thought, there were no knives in this kitchen, and a knife block was missing.
Harry closed the drawers and turned around, headed right, past two bedrooms and a bathroom. At the end of the hall, an open door revealed a set of stairs leading down. He peered over, where the glow of a Lumos Maxima, presumably from Ron, shot up and lit the area. Harry started down the steps, heart in his throat, pulse roaring in his ears. He didn't let himself pause to think of the mantra that was Please, don't let it be Malfoy. Don't let it be Malfoy repeating over and over in his head. The idiotic bastard should have signed the forms. If only he'd-
Harry's breath hitched.
He was devoid of clothing, covered from head to toe in lacerations. The missing knife block was discarded, off to the side. The stench of rotted eggs and cabbage that violated Harry and Ron's nostrils was pungent as ever, and his paper-white skin looked as though it was going to flake right off if a gust of wind hit just right. Harry gulped, his breath having been properly stolen away thanks to the dark ugly stains of blood on the wooden floor and the flies that were surrounding his body.
"I already cast a spell to check his vitals," Ron croaked. "He's dead."
Theodore Nott appeared to have been killed by nothing other than the various slashes along his body. No chemical burns, like Goyle, or eye-gouging, like Parkinson. Even Greengrass had been discovered with poison in her system.
Now, of course, that's not to say that Nott left the same way. Labs would determine that.
Still, the sight was sickening.
"I'll get pictures of what we see. You go on and call the Auror office's healer branch to get the body." Harry nodded solemnly as Ron spoke. Harry's sights couldn't help but drift over to the symbol written in blood on the wall, just like at every scene they'd arrived at. The coagulated chunks stood out in the thick, crimson streaks that painted the stone into a shape that should never be depicted in such a substance. The Christogram.
That night, Harry did not sleep. His mind kept reeling with the possibility that Malfoy was next. It was frustrating for him to not know Malfoy's whereabouts or what he was doing or if he was even safe. No Aurors were protecting him, and there was no telling when this psychopath might strike next, and who he might pin next.
Work the next day didn't do much to ease his worries, sitting down with his team and filling out paperwork regarding the murder, evidence, and the poor Muggleborn family whose house had been defiled by such an act. One thing that did come out of it, though, is they learned that the family wasn't all it seemed. They were incomplete. The once-father, mother, son, and daughter were now only father, mother, and son. Their daughter had been killed by Nott's father during the war.
Ron and Mordecai wondered if it might be worth asking the family some questions. Though the connection was thin, it was all they had to go off of. Harry thought it wouldn't make sense for the guilty party to report their own crime, and went directly to Kingsley Shaklebolt with his own idea.
"I want my team to be notified of any missing persons until we catch this guy."
Kingsley looked up from what he was doing, facing Harry with a calm that put him on edge. Harry steeled himself, taking the opportunity to speak again.
"It might give us the seconds we need to catch him in the act. If somebody is reported missing and it turns out to be somebody of interest..."
"Yes, I see." Kingsley sighed, turning to open a drawer and pulling out several sheets of parchment. "I'll let you know what I can do. I'm trusting you, Potter."
"Thank you, sir."
However, even that did not ease his mind about Malfoy. Why couldn't he just stop thinking about him, for one bloody second? It was sickening, at this point. His mind never failed to point out the flaws in his actions. Who did Malfoy even have to report him missing if he did go missing? Surely not Astoria. His father is still in prison... his mother? Did they even speak, anymore? Something unsavory settled in his gut.
When he returned to the office, Mordecai and Ron were still looking over everything, trying to brainstorm, to look for connections they hadn't seen before, or to find anything, anything at all that might stop the pile of bodies from growing. Ron glanced up.
"Mate, you alright? You look a bit sick."
Harry gulped, trying his damnedest to push everything out of his mind. Out, out so they don't make his stomach twist and turn anymore.
The worst of it was that somehow, almost two days later, he could still smell the rot from Nott's body.
He thought perhaps it was the universe punishing him.
"I'm going home early, today. I think I just need to catch up on some sleep."
Ron nodded in understanding, giving Harry a wave and letting him be on his way. Harry took his things and made his way to the nearest apparition point, disappearing with a whizz and a pop.
I can't believe the building has no elevator, Harry thought as he climbed the now third flight of stairs, taking a left once he reached the landing and scanning for the right flat number.
307. Harry knocked on the door.