Soul of Evil
Chapter 2
-Killing Department-
Reporting to Director Robards was one thing; being grilled by Rufus Scrimgeour was quite another. The Minister of Magic seemed to take exceptional pleasure in giving him a hard time, especially now that no dark lord was available to slay. Harry looked at the large clock on the wall, it pointed 12:15 pm, and he'd been in Robards' office for half a day.
The Ministry was having difficulties keeping the nature of the murders under wraps, and so was pressuring the Auror Department for a speedy solution to the case. Problem was there were no leads to go on to, much less a suspect. And true to his word, Robards put all the blame on Harry.
After yesterdays excitement in breaking the killer's code, they soon found themselves in the same position they began with: nothing. Of course what they've accomplished had great significance, but why did the killer use such a book. Was there even a relation to the killings? If so, what was it? Was there a clue in the clue? At least, they would now have the means to reach the intended victim before the killer could strike, and in the process catch him. But for now they had nothing, and Harry was being chewed because of it.
William Coldridge, the first victim, was the leading figure in infusing magical properties to ordinary muggle items and was also a successful businessman. The second victim was a woman, Elyse Perot, mother of two, a researcher for the Department of Magical Catastrophes. And the most recent victim was Damocles Belby, inventor of the Wolfsbane Potion. All three have never met and walked in different social circles. There were only two things tying them all together, one was that they attended Hogwarts in their youth, along with 90 percent of the population, another was that they were intelligent and accomplished people.
All they knew of the killer was the grim process his victims had to undergo. He plucked his victims from plain sight, like Ms. Perot who disappeared while having lunch in a local café and Mr. Coldridge who vanished while watching a quidditch game. Oddly, no one had seen anything, it was a mystery whether they were abducted or went willingly. At first the Department thought they've been kidnapped and waited for a ransom letter, until the bodies were discovered.
Mr. Coldridge was found in a dilapidated house on Bright Street. He was lying face down on a bed. A fine slit in the middle of his back exposed the spine, a sick remake of a costume with the zipper on the back. The ends of his muscle and skin were singed, stopping blood from flowing and creating a mess. The killer wanted his prize to be clean, the base of the spine removed while the victim lay helpless. When the aurors turned the body over, Coldridge's face was frozen in a grimace, as if life had just left him without warning. The other two bodies exhibited the same treatment. The only clue the killer left was a card meant to taunt them, to goad them to catch him.
Harry looked at Scrimgeour. The minister was reading his report again.
"Is that all, auror Potter?"
"Yes, Minister."
Scrimgeour was scribbling on a piece of parchment, occasionally peeking at Harry's report. All the while, Robards was giddy in his seat with anticipation. The scene reminded him of Snape grading his assignment while Malfoy waited for the professor to dish out punishment at Harry. He knew something was not right.
"I'm reassigning the protection of Spiel to Director Robards. You may go," the minister said. He handed the rolled parchment to Robards. The toothy grin Robards flashed him made Harry want to knock the Auror Head's teeth out.
"Minister, I disagree," Harry protested.
Robards flared up. "And why's that, Potter? Think you're better than me?"
"Stay out of this. I wasn't talking to you."
"Watch your mouth. I am your superior," Robards shouted.
"Enough!" Scrimgeour stood up, looking as menacing as he can. "Both of you, enough." Harry and Robards took their seats and quieted down. Though they still glowered at each other.
"Harry," Scrimgeour continued, "I know you want to catch whoever is doing this, and you will. I have full faith in you. But the priority is to keep Spiel alive. And-"
"But that's the perfect opportunity-"
The minister raised a hand to stop him. "Spiel's protection needs a more experienced touch. Be assured, Harry, if the culprit does turn up, Gawain will be more than capable to deal with him. Do you understand?"
Harry knew it'd be futile to argue his point. He was not deceived. They wanted the glory for themselves. In the three years he has spent as an auror; that much he knew. The Ministry had always been the way it was when Fudge was minister and nothing short of a rebellion would change that. The Auror Department was not an exception. "Am I done here, Minister?"
"Are we clear on this?"
"Yes, Minister."
Scrimgeour gave his assent. Harry left the two in a huff, wondering if Spiel would live to see the next day.
Harry was in a bad mood when he stepped out of Robards' office, and those sensible enough stood out of his way. Tonks and the others were taking their lunch break leaving him alone in the office. He didn't like how events played out and neither would his team when they found out. It was the equivalent of being pulled off the case. Further thought on the subject was interrupted when his best friend greeted him by the open doorway.
"Thought I'd find you here."
"Ron?"
"Want to go out for lunch?"
Harry shrugged. What was he supposed to do the entire day anyway? "Sure. Why not."
*****
They were in a corner of the Leaky Cauldron to have, according to Ron, a little privacy. Ron was drafted to the Cannons after Hogwarts and was doing quite well as their keeper. Hence, the tendency of fans to flock around him. He always knew Ron had it in him to succeed and be great in his own right; and now his best friend was one of the premiere players in Britain.
"We didn't get to talk much last night," Ron said between mouthfuls.
"Sorry about that." Harry pushed his plate away, a classic English meal of meat boiled until it was stringy, waterlogged potatoes, and the ubiquitous peas and carrots, tasteless and mushy. The edge of his empty stomach was dulled; or rather the alcohol had numbed his palate.
"No worries mate. So, uhm… how's work?"
Work? This was different. The only time Ron brought up the topic of work was to ask if Harry had a day off. Which meant that something was clearly bothering his long time friend. This was a far cry from a social visit. "It's all right. I heard your team made it into the semis."
"Yeah. We're playing Wood's team this coming week."
The Ron he knew would have been whooping in excitement with their team's progress but the one in front of him had his eyes downcast. "Ron, I've known you since we were kids. Just spit it out."
Ron set his spoon on the plate. He was thinking about something. Harry knew it had to be something serious, nothing against Ron but his best friend just didn't stop eating and start thinking in that same sequence.
"It's Hermione."
So they did have a quarrel. But why would Ron come to him? Unless… There's no way Ron could know. Did Ron suspect him? Harry was mentally panicking. "Hermione?"
"We- this is embarrassing." Ron buried his face in his hands. Harry waited patiently. Ron emerged determined. "Promise to keep this between us?"
Harry nodded. His confidence raised, Ron went on. "We've been trying to have a baby… and well… you know. It's been three years."
Great, Harry thought. As if his situation with Hermione wasn't hard enough, he had to listen to this, something he would never desire or care to hear of, much less picture in his mind. "No offense, Ron, but what's this got to do with me?"
"She went to St. Mungoes for a check up a couple of weeks ago. When she came back… she was… I dunno, like she was depressed. She wouldn't look at me or talk to me. She won't even let me touch her."
Harry didn't know what to say. Was Ron asking for his advice or his opinion of the situation? Ron was visibly shaking, like he was about to burst into tears at any moment. He waited until Ron composed himself.
"I love her, Harry," he said.
"I know."
"I tried asking her about the test results but she wouldn't tell me. I think…maybe…"
"You think she's barren," Harry concluded for Ron, who was having a difficult time talking. He also had the added incentive of finishing this conversation as soon as possible.
"Yes." Ron had his head bowed, staring blankly at the table. "Maybe you can go talk to her, Harry."
"Me?" Harry was genuinely surprised. "Why me?
"She trusts you, Harry. When I saw you two talking last night, I knew you were the only one who could help."
"This isn't a good idea, Ron. I'm not the right man for the job. There's Tonks, Molly-" Heck! Even Draco would be a better choice than him at this point.
Ron shook his head. "Please, Harry. Don't make me beg."
Harry was under Ron's pleading gaze. How did he manage to get caught in these things, he thought. "I'm not making any promises."
*****
Harry barged into his office, completely ignoring Kingsley and Stewart as he came in, and tapped his wand at the bottom drawer of his desk. "Socks," he said. The drawer opened. He drew out a small flask of liquor and began to drink it like water. Stewart watched in awe as Harry downed the contents in one gulp.
"Rough day?" Kingsley asked, amused.
"You don't know the half of it." He must have done something horrible in his past life, Harry reasoned, that karma was so adamant to bite him on the ass. Either that or some cosmic entity was having a laugh at his expense. He had agreed to visit Hermione at Ron's insistence, though he hadn't decided when to do so. "Where's Tonks?"
Stewart locked the door at Kingsley's indication. "Mrs. Lupin went home early, sir. Said you'd know."
Kingsley pointed to the calendar. There was a large red circle on today's date, to which Harry replied with a simple `oh.' He'd forgotten it was the full moon.
"Harry, about this morning."
"Yeah. What about it?"
"Word around here is you and Robards were at each other's throats."
"Is it true, sir?" Stewart joined in. He looked eager for more news.
The rumor mill in the department was, as usual, a well-oiled machine. Probably began when he slammed the door on Robards' office on his way out. However, the rumor mill was also, as usual, inaccurate - an irony in itself. "No. Just a shouting match. That's all," he said with an offhanded wave.
"Sir!"
"Pipe down, Stewart," Kingsley said. "So who won?"
Chock it up to Kingsley to make light of the situation. Harry grinned, his first the whole day. "I would have if it weren't for Rufus. I'll get him next time. I still have a score to settle."
The scandalized look Stewart made Harry and Kingsley laugh. "Don't worry your butt off, Stew. They won't do anything to me," Harry said. That was the truth. When he entered the auror division Rufus was so delighted that he gave Harry his own unit. The good publicity Harry gave the Ministry made it worthwhile for them to suffer his presence.
"You ready to tell us what happened?" Kingsley asked.
"Can't you tell?" Harry countered. It was a private game for them. An exercise to deduce what had transpired with as little information.
The senior auror chuckled. "Too easy. Judging by the sour face you had on, the shouting match with Robards, and our directors current happy disposition, I'd say we were off the case."
"Close. We're still on the case. The old bat got the Spiel assignment."
"Well, don't let that get you down. I believe our newest member might have some good news."
Harry turned to Stewart, an eyebrow raised. If the kid really did have something, he'd be impressed. Stewart held a copy of the `Western Mail,' a major Welsh newspaper. The headline was towards Harry, it read: `Massive Grave Found in Wells.'
"Bodies were found in the peat bogs of Llanwrtyd Wells, Wales by two boys bog snorkeling. Authorities think it's related to cult killings… and get this, sir, their spines were missing." Stewart gave Harry the newspaper to inspect.
"What do you think, Harry?" Kingsley asked.
The news was eerie in similarity to their case. He had to see. He had to know more. "I think it pays to read muggle newspapers."
*****
No matter how many times he traveled by portkey, he would always find the trip unsettling. It was evening and he still had to locate the local mortuary where the bodies were kept. Fortunately, Llanwrtyd Wells was a small town.
He had left Kingsley and Stewart to man the fort, just in case something came up. Stewart obviously wanted to come but Harry had to turn him down. They were already shorthanded with Tonks unavailable for the night.
The night was warm unlike yesterday. The streets were full of people; a lot had cameras. Newsmen from all over England had flocked here as well as amateurs wanting to make a name, hoping to land the latest scoop - to take advantage from the misery of the dead.
A few times he spotted television crews leading to where, he guessed, the police station was. Harry milled about the edges of the crowd. The media were interviewing a constable, probably the first one to respond to the boys' call, taking a shot at his moment of fame. He listened for a while before moving on, deeming the constable's story unnecessary. The bloke was clueless.
He skulked toward another part of town away from the crowd, looking at street names and buildings. Four blocks down the road he found what he was looking for - the mortuary. Guards weren't present. The chief pulled a fast one on the reporters, Harry thought.
The mortuary was a two-storey structure. Its window blinds were drawn, preventing anyone from peeking in. He gave the door a rattle. It was locked from the inside. Still, this didn't pose much of a problem; he was a wizard after all.
Transfiguration was never his strongest subject but the altered clothes he now wore was, rather, in his opinion, an excellent replica of a Metropolitan Police Inspector. A quick side-glance of the street revealed no bystanders. He unlocked the door with his wand and went inside.
It was apparent they were not expecting visitors; the lights were off as well as any form of alarm. He could hear rock music coming from the basement and decided to follow it. A man in his early twenties was eating a sandwich, next to him were the exhumed bodies set in rows.
Harry pressed the stop button on the radio. "Good evening."
The man jumped in his seat and dropped the sandwich on the floor. "Aw man. Look what you made me do. Don't do that."
"I'm Inspector Potter of the Metropolitan Police Service. Are you in charge here?" Harry asked in a steady monotone, it was important to keep the act, no matter how incompetent the audience might be.
"I just work the g-shift, man, I- I mean, inspector."
Harry made a purposeful stride toward the examination table where a body lay covered. "Then you won't mind if I take a look."
"I don't want any trouble, man."
"There won't be if you help me." Harry removed the cover. The body was in a state of decomposition but was otherwise intact. It was of a young female. "How many were found?"
The graveyard shift worker began counting with his fingers. "Seventeen. And they're still lookin'."
"Do you have the coroner's report?"
"I think its here somewhere." The man riffled through the table, overturning porn magazines as he did. "Here it is."
Harry scanned the report. "Why is there no time of death?"
"Dunno. Doc said there's this natural peat bog property or sumthin'."
Figures, he had to do things himself. The report wasn't very informative. Harry returned to the body. The incision on the girl's back was jagged, like the killer was unsure where to cut. The spine had been broken into several sections. None were missing. He examined the others. On some, the backs were so mangled it was hard to tell where the cut started. The spines told the same story. The sections taken varied from the lower to the upper part. But one thing was evident. This was the work of the same killer; only here, he was perfecting his craft. "Thank you. You've been a great help." Harry drew out his wand.
"Err, really? Hey, what's that?"
"Obliviate."
*****
It had proved to be a worrying day for Antoine Spiel. After all, being told you're the target of a serial killer isn't an everyday occurrence. It was just after lunch that Director Robards informed him of the situation. He, along with his son, was immediately escorted to a safe house in Shepherd's Bush, just a walk through Wandsworth Bridge. `A precaution,' Robards had said, until the killer was caught. He wasn't complaining, of course, but that didn't give him the least bit of comfort.
The house was small in comparison to his home, with only a living room and kitchen downstairs and two bedrooms above. He was told the place was heavily warded, with aurors patrolling the outside. Again, Robards assured him of their safety.
"Dad, I think I heard something outside."
Sure enough, there was a knock on the door. Antoine got up from the kitchen table where he was playing solitaire for the last hour. He peeked through the spyhole. An auror was standing outside. "Yes?"
"I'm from the Auror Office, Mr. Spiel. Director Robards sent me. May I come in?" the auror said.
Antoine kept his eye on the auror. He was carrying two bottles of butterbeer. "Password?" He didn't see the point in having a password if the place was indeed heavily guarded but it was one of the precautions Robards mentioned, and so he asked.
"Slippery toad," the visitor answered.
It was correct. He opened the door and let the man in.
"How are you holding up, Mr. Spiel?"
"Good as can be." In reality, he wasn't. He only answered for pretenses' sake. The auror sat on the velvet sofa near his son. Antoine seated himself on an armchair to the sofa's left. "Has there been any word?"
The auror popped open the bottles. "It's not pepper up but it does calm the nerves."
Antoine accepted the proffered butterbeer and drank; feeling more relaxed. "Is there any development?"
"About that. I don't think…" The auror was signaling Antoine with his eyes, pointing to his son.
"Jason, go upstairs."
"Can I bring my book?"
Antoine nodded his approval.
"Thanks dad." The boy said his goodnights to both adults and ran upstairs.
"Nice kid you got."
"Yes, yes." Spiel had another sip of the drink, waiting to hear what news the auror had.
"Now, Mr. Spiel," the auror began, "please don't take this the wrong way but what you're drinking there is a mild paralysis potion."
Antoine's eyes widened with the revelation. "W-What is the meaning of this?" He tried to bolt up from his seat but found his limbs refusing to cooperate. They were heavy, as if made from lead. He looked wildly at the man in front of him. "Guards," he shouted.
"I'm afraid they have all passed from this life. I mean, really. Ten guards? They should give me more respect, as is my right." The man removed the bottle Antoine held in his constricted grip and was now moving the small table to make space on the floor. "As for the wards… It's ingenious. See, wards only protect when there is a forceful entry or an attack, neither of which I did."
He was a fool. He warranted his own death by letting the man in and accepting the potion. Antoine commanded his body once more to move but could only raise a measly finger in response. He was helpless - pathetic! The fiend picked him up and tossed him face down the carpeted floor. His shirt was being torn in the middle. "Please don't kill me."
"Kill you?" asked the fiend, offended. "I'd never dream to have you suffer that fate. Don't compare yourself to the pilgrims outside, Mr. Spiel. To you I bestow a great gift."
Antoine felt an intense searing pain from the middle of his back. He tried to cry out but his voice had finally given way. The torment he felt held nothing in comparison. The fiend was trailing whatever device he was using downward. He was in agony beyond anything. Oh Merlin! He was being opened!
"Dad?"
No! Jason! Run! He mentally screamed. He knew it was in vain. The boy was standing at the foot of the stairs, probably came down to see what was happening when he heard the thud that was Antoine's body hitting the floor. The child now watched his father being butchered.
Concern was mounting in Antoine but a sensation, slow and welcome warmth began to spread throughout his body, pushing the concern aside. A strange feeling of calmness in the midst of chaos passed over him. Then - a snap! His body lay lifeless.
The fiend pocketed his hard-earned reward and crouched in front of the boy, who was staring dumbly at the piece of meat on the floor. "Did you enjoy watching that?" The boy had become mute, numb, and in shock. He put a card in the boy's hand. "Make sure you give this to the nice people coming here. He'll lead me to her. And remember," he said, preparing to leave, "if you're as good as your father, I'll come back for you too."
*****
Kingsley hurried toward the safe house. He had asked Proudfoot, one of the aurors on duty, to give him an hourly update and his friend was 15 minutes late. It could be nothing but he didn't want to chance anything. He had stayed in the office waiting for Harry's return when this came up. He wished he hadn't sent Stewart home; a back up would have come in handy.
The surroundings were quiet, a peculiarity in itself. Even when he rounded the corner of the building there was an absence of activity. He was still a block away but he noticed the lack of guards outside. Then he saw a figure slip out the entryway. Was it a guard? If so, where were the others? He felt a gulch in his stomach, a bad omen. "Hey," Kingsley yelled. The shadow looked his way and, just as quickly, darted into an alleyway.
A horrible thought crossed his mind. Proudfoot's silence, the quiet streets, and the absence of guards… everything fell into place. It was the killer - and in that line, that meant all the aurors had failed and Spiel was, in all likelihood, dead. He had no time to think. He had to act fast. Kingsley plunged to a chase after the fleeing man, his wand drawn and ready. The back street was dimly lit, street lamps overhead were too far in between to be of any help, only the moon provided substantial illumination. The killer's footsteps echoed across the pavement, and judging from the intervals, the guy was nimble.
He continued the pursuit through the labyrinthine alleyways of Shepherd's Bush; through the rights and lefts, unrelenting but at the same time a feeling of being led was creeping into him. Several times he could have sworn the man was laughing at him. Around him, streetlights began to falter, and as he passed he was exposed to lengths of darkness then light, then darkness again. Kingsley could hear the footfalls slowing down. Either the man was beginning to tire or the killer had decided to make a stand. The footfalls had completely stopped, up ahead, the killer stood on the far side of a light pool thrown by one of the lampposts, effectively concealing his face in the shadows. Kingsley approached cautiously, his wand trained on the man, a spell ready to be cast should the man attempt any volatile action. "Give yourself up," Kingsley shouted.
There was no answer. The man did not even move.
Kingsley walked steadily toward the man. He could see no visible weapon, not even a wand; indeed, he looked so normal no one would think this was the serial killer. With his plain dark jacket and slacks, the man could pass for either an ordinary muggle or a wizard. "Don't move," Kingsley said, "if you want to remain alive. If you try to run I'll bring you down. Do you understand?"
The other said nothing. A bit closer, and Kingsley could see a smooth chin. The man was young. But what drew him were the eyes. The stare had the stillness of a hurricane's eye, menacing and unforgiving. "Step into the light," Kingsley commanded. And just as before, the man did not even move an inch. "Who are you?" Kingsley proceeded.
"I," the man said, "am giving you the chance to go away." He spoke in a demeaning tone, as if he expected Kingsley to obey.
There was something in the nasal voice that sounded very familiar but he can't quite put his finger on it. "No. You're coming with me."
The other shook his head, unwilling even to contemplate that possibility. "Leave," he said.
Kingsley wasn't certain why but a part of him wanted to concede to the other man's authority. An unearthly superiority seemed to compel him to subject himself to this person. "If you won't come at your own accord, I'll take you."
"No." The man raised his hand to chest height and glanced down at it. "I thank you for your kindness, but you must forgive me."
Suddenly, the lights began to flicker again. Only this time they continued until they were both plunged into complete darkness. In the sudden pitch, Kingsley's apprehension grew. "Lumos," he cried, but for some reason, though the tip of his wand began to emanate light, it did not pierce the inky blackness. And then the dark broke; something lit the surroundings that were neither electric nor starlight. The source was the man opposite him. He'd begun to burn with a faint luminescence. Light was escaping out his fingertips. It enveloped his entire body with fire that consumed neither flesh nor bone, the light flowing out of the mouth, eyes, and nostrils. Now it began to take form, shapes, or at least it seemed to. It was all seems. Phantoms sprang from the lancing lights. Kingsley could make out human forms, faces, countless people. In the center of this maelstrom, the killer stared on at Kingsley: clear and cold.
Then, without a comprehensible cue, the entertainment tool a different turn altogether. Bloody darkness spilled out from the killer's eyes. What happened next, Kingsley had no warning, not even the capacity to understand, for he had never seen magic such as what assaulted him. There was only buzzing blackness. The very air seemed to close down his throat. His head throbbed like two plates grinding against each other. And there were voices, no, whispers. A sickening presence was everywhere.
"A fine place, don't you think?" a voice snaked into his head.
In his panic, Kingsley sent out a cutting curse to where he last saw the man and was rewarded when he heard a howl of pain. But he had no way of knowing that it would entail a price too heavy to pay.
For a brief moment, the lights came back on again, the illumination so sudden and flat it drained any last vestige of magic. The man clutched at his arm, his face contorted in unbelief. "Blood! You dare wound your savior!"
The voice was now more familiar, more human-like. He saw the killer stagger backwards, toward the light of the light pool, revealing a face he knew. "You!"
"You dare to cut me!"
The darkness came back instantly and completely, like a vindictive tempest, bringing a cold presence everywhere. What unnerved him was that the darkness felt part of him, almost like it was intruding upon his very essence and trying to unseat him from control. It felt tangible, creeping up his spine unhindered. `It's all in your head,' Kingsley reasoned to himself.
"You think it a trick, pilgrim?"
He was a lost soul, guideless in this sudden void. It's not real! Kingsley held out his hands, taking a few steps here and there. Nothing. There was no forward or backward, no up, no down, left, or right. Nothing!
"Nothingness is essential."
"No! Get out off my head"
"You are misguided, pilgrim. For you see, you are the one inside mine."
The darkness was eating into his being. He was in a dream, a fabrication. Hope was none existent. Emptiness embraced him. He felt every experience he had, every pain, joy, sorrow, everything was insubstantial. His passion was dust. Optimism was tainted by deception. Only the abyss was present.
A form seemed to emerge from the darkness a short distance from wherever he was. It resembled a man though deep down Kingsley knew this was a monster. The vision, alone, ignited his nerves as well as his senses. The pain his body had been spared seeped into his consciousness, the trickle becoming first a stream and then a flood. He felt as though he was laid on knives, their points slicing between his vertebrae, puncturing his innards.
"Do you feel the madness, pilgrim?"
Too weak to even moan, all he could be was a mute. A suffering mute whose only hope was that salvation or death came quickly, to put him out of his agony. `I want to die,' he thought. Kingsley was crying. "Let me go… please," he begged.
"Go to hell," the voice replied.
For the first time his life, Kingsley knew exactly what that meant.
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