Soul of Evil

Soul of Evil

Disclaimers: All characters, spells, place, etc. found in the HP books belong to JKR.

The code used in the story is from a WWII book I read when I was ten.

Soul of Evil

Chapter 1

-Belfry of the Lost-

The cobbled street rang with each desperate step Harry made as he ran. His destination lay ahead in view: an attractive, old-fashioned wedding chapel overlooking the seaside. On any other day he might have admired the scenery, perhaps even extract a feeling of comfort from the exquisite landscape but as he entered the gates of the chapel all he could feel was stomach-churning dread.

He paused, briefly looking at his shaking hands, willing them to stay still and failing miserably. With one big breath he steeled himself and urged his legs to carry him forward. As he entered, guests, some muggles, began eyeing his appearance starting a wave of murmurs at the back. After all, who in their right mind would show up in an unkempt state to attend a wedding? But Harry paid no attention to them. All that occupied his mind was the sight of his two best friends in front, now sharing their first kiss as husband and wife. The hall erupted with applause welcoming the newlyweds. Bells from outside began to chime. He was too late.

He felt like crying. No tears ever came out to ease his pain. His knees buckled and gave way but he did not crumple to the floor. A firm hand was on his shoulder, rousing him from his despair.

“Harry.” The voice was female. Familiar.

“Harry,” the voice called again.

He gave a `m' as reply. He looked up bleary-eyed, blinking once, twice. “'Zat you Tonks?”

“Harry, wake up. You've got to stop doing this.” Tonks pried an emptied bottle of whiskey from Harry's hand, the latter refusing to cooperate.

“Why?” Harry slurred. “Helps me sleep.”

Tonks stared at him with eyes slanted into slits. “You mean `forget.'”

“Same thing.” Harry stood up from his perch at the bar counter, arching his back and stretching his arms, chasing away the last remnants of slumber. “Thanks for letting me stay the night, Tim. Put it on my tab, won't you?” Tim, the barman, nodded but otherwise kept his lips sealed, opting to continue polishing a glass mug he'd been cleaning for the last half hour. “Heh. You're the most quiet barman I've ever met, Tim.” The barman nodded for the second time.

Tonks had her arms crossed and was tapping her foot irritably on the floor. “Are you done?”

“Yup.”

She turned around, heading for the door. “C'mon. The chief's been blowing his top at everyone and anyone.”

“That's nothing new. He was born that way.”

“Be serious, will you. There's been another one and the chief isn't happy.”

Hearing this, his demeanor changed instantly - his expression was grim. This would make three murders in the span of two weeks. The killer was becoming bolder and that was never a good thing. To top it off, the two previous victims were well known, leaders in their area, prominent members of the society. The Prophet's going to have a field day if this gets out, he thought.

Harry took his coat, searched a pocket, and drew out a cigarette. “Where?”

Tonks watched Harry light the cigarette with the tip of his wand, and then helping himself to a long drag; all effects of liquor seemed to fade away. “Kensington mews, apartment nine.”

Harry grabbed Tonks' arm and both disappeared with a pop. Tim strode to where Harry sat, cleaning up the three bottles of whiskey Harry had last night.

*****

Harry arrived at the crime scene followed by a grumbling Tonks. He had apparated two blocks away rather than coming directly to the apartment. There was a slight chance the killer was still around admiring his handiwork. Only when he was sure no one suspicious was about did he make his way into the building.

Three people were in the room: Gawain Robards, Head of the Auror office, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and a blonde young man an inch shorter than him.

“About time you got here, Potter,” Robards' deep voice boomed. “Where've you been?”

Gawain was a class act of a common ministry official, perennially feeding off the palms of the minister. All knew that his earning the position of Head Auror had more to do with his tenure alongside the minister than his sterling talent or skill. Harry could swear he saw steam coming out from Robards' nose and ears. He gave his superior a wide grin and answered, “The crapper.” The moment the words left his mouth he heard Tonks smack her forehead with her palm. Shacklebolt was sporting a smirk while the young man was looking at Robards with uncertainty.

The Head Auror muttered something unintelligible. His face resembled someone who had just swallowed something unpleasant. “You better put your act together, Potter. Else I swear it'll be your head. And the same goes to the three of you,” he pointed at the others then looked Harry straight in the eyes, a vain at the right side of his temples was twitching. “I expect a full report on this by tomorrow morning and I'm holding you entirely responsible. You got me, Potter?”

An elbow struck Harry's ribs as Tonks nudged him. “Yes, sir. A full report tomorrow morning.” He watched Robards take one last, long good look at them before leaving. Harry felt very pleased with himself. “Now that the old bat's gone, on to business.”

“Maid found the body sprawled on the kitchen floor and alerted the muggle authorities. All have been obliviated including the other tenants in the area,” Shacklebolt informed, already heading towards the kitchen. Tonks had gone to the other rooms, occasionally waving her wand to check for magical residue.

“Mister Potter, sir?” The young man said, stopping Harry from joining Kingsley.

“Hm?”

“I don't know if you know me but you were three years my senior at Hogwarts, Sir. My name is Stewart Ackerley and I was assigned to your team this morning. I just want to say it's such an honor - “

“Don't sweat it, Stew. Welcome to the club.” Harry had no desire in hearing another `an honor' speech from anyone; he already had enough of that from Creevey who now works for the Daily Prophet. “Coming?” He waited for Stewart to follow and then resumed his trek to the kitchen.

“So what house were you in?”

“Ravenclaw, sir.”

Harry gave a small chuckle. “Finally, some brains for our group. You don't know the things I've got to go through with Tonks.”

“I heard that,” Tonks yelled from the next room.

“Sir?”

“Hm?”

“If you don't mind me asking, h-how is Ms. Hermione?”

Harry stopped in his tracks and faced Stewart. For a second Harry thought the greenhorn knew the sore spot he had every time Hermione's name came up but that line of thought was erased when he saw how Stewart's cheeks were slightly flushed. He wouldn't be surprised if half of the male population of Ravenclaw worshiped the ground Hermione walked on… even to this day! “If you've got the hots for her, Stew, you're too late.” Too late like he was. “She's a Weasley now.”

They entered the kitchen. You couldn't tell there had been a murder here if it weren't for the body. The room was immaculate; everything appeared to be untouched. Harry knelt beside Shacklebolt who was examining the body. The wound was what made this case peculiar. The victims were always found lying on their stomach. An incision was made at the lower back with the base of the spine removed, all done with surgical precision. Another thing was that the wounds were cauterized so no blood was spilled. But what really annoyed Harry was the coded message the killer always left, daring them to catch him. “What have you got?”

“Damocles Belby, 80, inventor of the Wolfsbane Potion. Last seen coming out of the Ministry of Magic two days ago,” Stewart volunteered.

“The apartment's been swept clean. We found no evidence whatsoever. The killer used the same M.O.,” Shacklebolt added. “And he left us another calling card.”

“Guess what?” Tonks had just entered, holding a few items and a photo album in her hands. “He,” motioning at the body, “doesn't live here. Just like the other two.”

In other words they had nothing to go on. Zero. Except for the blasted cards the bastard left. “Alright. Tonks, you're on crowd control. I don't want the Prophet getting a whiff of anything more than they need to know. Shacklebolt, you finish up here. Stew, find out anything worthwhile concerning Belby. I'll start on that report. Meet me back at headquarters, 3p.m.”

Harry took another glance at Damocles. The dead man's eyes were as wide open as was his mouth, a scream frozen for eternity. It gave the impression that Belby was alive when his spine was ripped off him. Harry had a gut feeling things were about to get worse.

*****

Harry sat in a chair with his feet propped on the desk. He held the third card left by the killer over him and was staring at it for the last few minutes, not making head or tail with it. Maybe it was written in some alien language.

The entire team was in the office with him, trying to finish the report he was supposed to finish, albeit grudgingly. He was all set in doing the report when he came, however the letter on his desk drained him of all the enthusiasm he had. It was a letter from Bill. He and Fleur had just arrived from Paris and were holding a sort of reunion at the Burrow tonight. Everyone will be there. Tonks received a similar invitation for her and Remus. It wasn't that he didn't want to come. He'd missed Bill and Fleur too since they moved to France three years ago. Truth was, he missed everyone now that he distanced himself from most contact. He wanted to see all of them, especially Hermione. Yet it was because of her that he didn't want to go. Unwanted memories he longed to forget would only resurface.

And so he just sat there looking at the coded clues the madman left behind, attempting to cipher it all without much luck. He'd employed every code breaking technique the Auror Department knew. From numbers to charts, patterns to muggle decoder rings, none yielded any results. After all he'd done the card still looked the same:

CVX/001/SSS/31000/Z

IFEIN/MTROS/EVIFE/HEDMT/AEIRO/NTRER/ETETT/RREIO.

The task was starting to infuriate him. In an act of pure insanity (or maybe he was just tired and wanted some distraction), he began assigning the alphabet to the first sentence of Bill's letter, I = A, H = B, A = C and so on. In the end looked like this:

I have just returned from a visit to Ron and Hermi…

A BCDE FGHI JKLMNOPQ RSTU V WXYZ

He spelled out his name using the code. It read: SIFFS. What was there to lose? Harry thought. He took the code and applied it to the killer's message, leaving allowances for double letters and representations. The result, once collated, was unbelievable.

IFEIN/MTROS/EVIFE/HEDMT/AEIRO/NTRER/ETETT/RREIO.

AREYO/UINTH/EDARK/BEQUI/CKANT/OINES/PIELI/SNEXT.

Decoded, it read: Are you in the dark? Be quick. Antoine Spiel is next. It was unthinkable. Surely the killer hadn't been using Bill's letter, did he? Harry applied the code to the top part of the card. Nothing. He tried the same technique on the other cards. The meaningless remained meaningless. Was it just luck then? Is this even right? He reread Bill's letter. This was just impossible. Wait. No. He was wrong. Bill's letter had nothing to do with this. All he needed was the first 26 letters. Therein lay the means to crack this puzzle wide open.

He lit another cigarette and blew a few puffs of smoke at the ceiling. He had to make sure before acting. There was no point jumping the gun too early… extraordinary as it was.

A stack of case files on his desk caught his attention. They had labels, serial numbers on them. What if the top part of the message worked on a similar principle? As a tracking system or perhaps a pointer. He checked the two previous cards. It always began with CVX and ended with Z. The only difference was the numbers separated by the triple s'. The one he had solved had 001/SSS/31000. The other two had 018/SSS/27000 and 010/SSS/23000. There was no pattern. Even if there was it wasn't anything obvious. The numbers weren't in sequence meaning it had to be a pointer. Like coordinates, like pages in a book or… Harry fell off his seat. He heard Tonks giggle behind him. A book! It was possible. Sure I have just returned from a visit was something anyone would write in a letter. Why not write it in a book? He examined the cards again. The lowest value was one and the highest was 31 discounting the zeroes. 31. That was roughly the number of chapters in a book. It would make more sense if one number pointed to a chapter and the other to a line in the book. Only one more thing… “Guys?”

“What now, Harry?” asked a very amused Tonks. Harry was still lying flat on the floor and was now looking up at them.

“Who's Antoine Spiel?”

Kingsley shrugged while Tonks shook her head. That only left Stewart. “Uhm… Hogwarts class 1987. Educated in both muggle and wizarding institutions. He is considered a genius concerning his research on plants, magical and non-magical.”

Harry was quickly on his feet and leaning over Stewart's desk. “He's real?”

“Y- yes,” answered a startled Stewart.

“Damn it,” Harry whispered under his breath. “Tonks, get some people to tail Spiel. Find anything we have on him. I want full surveillance. But don't alert him. Take Stew with you and when you're done, find us. Kingsley and I'll be at the Ministry Library.”

“Harry?”

“Hurry. We don't have much time. I'll explain later.” He was already halfway through the door with Shacklebolt rushing to keep up with him.

Tonks looked as confused as Stewart. “Well? You heard the man. Let's go.”

*****

Three hours into their search in the library and the magnitude of what they had to accomplish was beginning to set in. Harry reckoned he had piled through more books he ever did prior to this day. Looking for an obscure piece of text was proving to be hopeless. With millions of books in print, the killer could have chosen any one of them.

Harry heard the librarian pass by, bemoaning the desecration of her library. Mountains of books were everywhere. Tables were cleared to make room for more space and the air was thick with cigarette smoke. He felt weary from looking at so many books and his stomach was grumbling. He needed a drink.

A primal cry interrupted Harry's scrutiny of `Erson Mel and the Cup of Water.' “This is bloody ridiculous,” Tonks screamed.

Harry craned his neck to her side of the library. She was glaring death and walking straight for him. A yawning Stewart was also heading to where he was.

“Sir, maybe we should call it a night,” Stewart said. “And I think Mrs. Lupin feels the same way.”

“Harry, if you think I'm going to stay here another hour -“ Tonks began to launch into her tirade. Thankfully it was at that moment that Kingsley chose to interrupt.

“I agree with them, Harry. We're all tired. A little rest will help,” The dark-skinned auror advised.

Harry felt a bit miffed but had to admit they were right. “Alright. You three go home. I'll -“

Kingsley took a firm grasp of Harry's shoulder and spoke, acting every bit the senior of the team. “No, Harry. You need to take a break.”

“But-“

“No buts.”

“Sir, if you'd like, I can come in extra early,” Stewart piped in.

Harry sighed. He was defeated, though he could hardly fault the others. He sat down on a chair and picked up another book. “Okay. Just let me stay for a bit more.” The look on Kingsley's face was that of a father reproving a disobedient son. “Really,” Harry said. “I won't take long.”

“I'll take care of this,” Tonks told the two. “Leave him to me.”

Kingsley nodded. He had an idea on what they were going to talk about and didn't want to stay for a possible blow up. He dragged the young Ackerley away before he can have the chance to hear anything. Tonks waited until the two were gone and took a seat opposite Harry. “I know what you're doing.”

Harry raised an eyebrow at her but otherwise resumed scanning the pages of `Mary Cotter and the Half Pint Pauper.' “Yes. I'm trying to catch a madman who has a knack for killing important people.”

Tonks snatched the book from Harry's hands and threw it behind her. “No. What you're doing is shirking from going to the Burrow.” She waited for him to answer. He only turned his head away. “You can't run forever, Harry.”

“You don't know what you're talking about.”

“It's been three years. You have to move on.”

“No,” Harry said. “We're not having this conversation.” He was about to stand up and leave if not for Tonks restraining him with a hand on his arm.

“Look,” Tonks said, adopting a softer tone. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. It's almost eight and Remus is waiting for me. At least come with us, even for just a few minutes. I'm sure Molly would like to see you. Bill and Fleur would certainly appreciate you being there. What do you say?”

Harry's face was unreadable and Tonks wasn't sure if he'd even heard a word she said until he gave a rather dejected answer. “I might,” he finally said.

Tonks broke into a warm smile, gave him a peck on the cheek and patted Harry's hand. “We'll meet you at the Burrow then?”

Harry grunted. He immediately wiped a hanky over his cheek, much like children would do when kissed by their grandparents.

“And Harry.”

“Yeah.”

“Take a bath.”

*****

How often he'd find himself looking in from the outside. That happened more and more these past months. Harry had been standing outside the Burrow for ten minutes. He simply couldn't bring himself to knock.

The Burrow had drastically changed. With all the Weasley children having jobs, it was only a matter of time when they'd pitch in and improve the house. Of course, it still felt warm and homely as it did when he first came here. So why was he having problems knocking on the damn door? And the fact he was hungry and the smell of Molly's cooking was making a strong point of case. He raised a hand to knock for the umpteenth time when the door opened and out flew an enormous ginger cat, the owner soon followed suit.

Harry froze when he realized he was now face to face with Hermione, who looked equally surprised to see him. He was sorely aware of the lump that seemed to form in his throat. He felt a chill come over him though he wasn't sure if it was the cool night air or if it was the presence of Hermione. His heart was pumping twice faster than normal. She looked a bit frayed possibly due to lack of sleep. Her hair was pulled back into a messy bun and she also seemed to have lost weight. However, none of these detracted to how he saw her, he found her unquestionably attractive. She offered him a small unsure smile, shaking him from the drunken stupor. “H-hi,” Harry croaked out.

“Hi,” she replied, her voice having a tinge of shyness to it. She gently pushed the door close behind her. “It's been a long time.”

“I've… I've been busy… with work.” He watched her sit on the first step of the new porch, taking Crookshanks into her arms. Harry remained standing beside her, both having an excellent view of the garden.

They stayed that way for a couple of minutes, neither saying anything for fear of breaking the serenity. To Harry, this was the first time in a long while he ever felt at peace. He was glad he came, even just for this.

Crookshanks purred as his master caressed the side of his belly. “We've missed you, Harry,” she said, the sound of her voice drifting along the wind, having an ethereal quality. It was a heavenly medley, something to be savored.

“I came by last Christmas didn't I?”

“That was more than two years ago.” She spoke so lightly. It was clear she wasn't holding anything against him, merely stating fact.

“Like I said, I've been-“

“Busy,” she finished for him.

Harry hung his head, slightly ashamed. “Yeah.”

Again there was silence between them. Harry had no idea what he was supposed to say. A part of him wanted to take a chance, to tell her everything. Everything. But how could he? You can't go about telling you just woke up from a dream, a dream that was your life.

It was a cruel hand fate had dealt out. And that hand produced changes. In general, change can be either good or bad depending on where you are when it happens. For Harry, that change came three years ago on a Wednesday that otherwise would have been perfect: the day of his best friends' wedding.

He'd been handed his first assignment a few months earlier and deeply entrenched in the case. He didn't know if he'd be back on time so he begged off being Ron's best man, much to the disappointment of the Weasleys.

The wedding was inadvertently the source of his current predicament. In his haste to solve the case early he made a rash decision, hit with a curse that knocked him out cold, nothing serious as to warrant a visit to St. Mungoes. The auror medical ward served as his home for a couple of days, tended by a witch who reminded him, scarily, of Madam Pomfrey. He had joked to Tonks that the incident was a blessing. He was looking forward to attending the wedding the next day, how surprised Ron and Hermione would be, he thought then.

On the day of his discharge from the clinic, Remus, Tonks, and Kinsley were with him. He was planning a stop by Grimmauld Place for a quick change then head to the ceremony. The medi-witch came in riffling through some papers, saying she'd done a thorough check on him. Something was troubling her. What followed next devastated Harry. He'd made a full recovery but they found an `anomaly' in his system, a rare condition but not unheard off, his aura showed the prolonged effects of Amortentia. It was difficult to say how long he'd been like this or when he first managed to ingest the potion. It could have been days, months, years even. And finding the culprit would be next to impossible. His head was spinning. He vaguely thought of Ginny. Was it all a lie then?

The medi-witch gave him a potion, the antidote to his dream-state. She asked him to think about it because once taken, his life might never be the same again. She had wisdom beyond his years, but what was he to do? He'd rather die than live a lie. Harry looked at the cup and the liquid that was its content. He drank the potion in one swig.

Something swirled inside, a gradual heat steadily growing. He found himself writhing on the floor, needles pricking every pore of his skin. A fire inside raged like a monster being slain from within. And when he thought he could not endure the pain any longer - it was over. He was covered in sweat. His breathing slowly returned to normal. For the mess he looked on the outside, his mind was clear on one thing: that if he didn't move now he would lose her forever. He staggered, raising himself, clawing his way to the door. Someone tried to help him, but he didn't care for any help. He wanted to see her, to talk to her. She was everything to him… “Hermione.”

“Yes, Harry?”

He wasn't aware he had spoken her name. She was looking at him, a ghost of a smile gracing her features.

“Hermione? You there?” Harry heard Ron's voice as the door opened once more. “Blimey! Harry! Good to see you, mate. What are you doing out here?” Ron took a few steps and shook Harry's hand. “Really good to see you.”

“We were just catching up on old times,” Hermione answered as she stood up. She walked past them and entered the house, not sparing another glance.

“Well, come in. Mum's been wanting to see you for ages and wait `til you hear Charlie's adventure…” Harry let himself be ushered in with Ron droning on. His eyes were glued at Hermione's retreating form.

*****

For Kingsley Shacklebolt, life used to revolve around two things: work and more work. That changed six months ago when he met Lissa. He had taken a rare walk to think and relax and soon found his way to the National Museum, staring at a painting of an impaled angel with black wings. He hadn't noticed he wasn't alone in admiring the picture; a good-looking woman in her twenties was with him. He'd liked her the moment she talked to him. `The Angel of Pain,' she'd told him. `Said to have been made by a seer in the 16^th century. People believe it has magical properties. But who believes magic in this day and age?' When later she found out that the painting was indeed magical, her eyes widened so much he was afraid they'd pop out. From then on they'd always meet by the angel every weekend. At the beginning he was hesitant to pursue a relationship with her, considering they lived in different worlds, her, a muggle, and he, a wizard. Eventually it was Lissa who made the first step, commenting on small things about him - his appearance, how he talked - making sure he got the idea she was interested in him. Soon after, he told her he was a wizard. He was quite relieved when she accepted him, saying that it didn't matter even if he came from another planet.

He'd since moved into her place, the most blissful two months he'd ever had. She was wearing his robe watching television when he arrived. He sank down on the couch next to her.

“Have you been smoking?” she complained, nuzzling into him.

“Nah, that's Harry.”

“Just checking.” She was planting kisses on his neck with building eagerness.

“Want me to take a shower?”

She shifted her position and was now straddling his hips. “Don't tease. I've been wanting for you all day and tonight, you're mine.” When she kissed him he could sense something feral spring forth from her. Kingsley let her undress him while he slipped the robe off her.

Light fingers traced his spine. Another hand held his half-hard member, comfortably trapped. When she released her hold, he was fully erect. He trailed kisses down the nape of her neck and was making his way to her breasts when she stopped him. “No. Not yet,” she said. Her hand was again on his phallus, rubbing the underside; it responded in spasms of pleasure.

Lissa pushed him down the couch. Kingsley could see her intent gaze on his erection. She put a finger in her mouth and transferred a thin film of saliva to the tip of his cock where she began weaving slow, lazy patterns that made him gasp. He felt her lips envelop him up to the base and her tongue dancing magnificently inside her mouth. She was making a noisy meal out of him.

He was flushed and breathing rapidly. He closed his eyes. He felt his muscles tightening as she quickened her pace, bringing him closer and closer to climax. Then - she was gone, ending the sensations immediately. When he opened his eyes she was running to the bedroom, giggling all the way. “You're going to pay for that,” he called after her and gave chase.

They continued on in the bedroom up until the fires within were sated, both lying together entangled with each other. Lissa was breathing contentedly in his arms.

Whether Kingsley knew it or not, he really had a lot on his mind. And even though they both came in a shuddering, fully satisfied manner, it wasn't one of his best performances. The code still nagged at him. I have just returned from a visit… He ran the infernal sentence over and over his head. He was vaguely aware that Lissa was telling him something. “What was that?”

“I said, `I have just returned from a visit to my Landlord.'”

He was bewildered. “What Landlord?”

“No, silly. I was finishing your sentence.”

“What sentence?”

She looked at him puzzled. “You were saying it over and over: `I have just returned from a visit…' God knows I've read the book a thousand times.”

Kingsley's mind was working in overdrive. Talk about a lucky break! And two in one day! He gripped her shoulders like a maniac. “You know the book?” he asked, excitement brimming forth.

“Yes. Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte.”

How stupid they were, he thought. Of course the killer would choose a book unfamiliar to wizards. “Where do those lines come in the book?”

“The opening. Why? What's going on?”

He kissed her full on the mouth. “I swear I'd marry you if I didn't have to go right now.” Kingsley got up and began putting his clothes on.

*****

Dinner at the Burrow was very pleasant… for everyone else. Harry sat in his chair, trying not to draw any attention to him. He made it a point not to talk to Hermione, who, it seemed, was doing the same. That didn't stop him from stealing glances at her though. Remus and Tonks provided clever interference whenever he was about to be caught.

It was pretty awkward for him from the get go. Ron had pushed him directly toward the dinner table where the entire Weasley clan was. Molly greeted him with her usual bone-cracking hug and kept asking why he was so thin. He had a fleeting suspicion Tonks had again been telling stories about his eating habits (or rather, his drinking habit).

He cursed his luck when he was seated across Ron and Hermione. As if that wasn't enough he was flanked by his ex-fiancée, Ginny, with her new beau, and the Weasley twins, which wasn't so bad since they promised not to pull any pranks on him.

Fleur had taken to retelling their life in Paris, with Bill providing occasional bits of information. He would have listened more if he weren't shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He limited his vision to his plate and the twins, his only source of conversation other than Ron with his Cannon games. Ginny and her boyfriend were also giving him an anvil-sized headache, they certainly wasn't shy in showing their affection for one another. Sometimes he can feel her glaring at the back of his head. They didn't really part on friendly terms. Maybe she was doing this to spite him, Harry thought.

It also bothered him that Hermione remained quiet throughout dinner. She was somber and had a distant look in her eyes. Ron scowled a few times at her inattention but she didn't seem to mind. Harry wondered if they had a quarrel, not meaning he was happy with how they were acting.

He was blissfully enjoying the fact he was being, almost, ignored. The key word being `almost.' The moment Fleur asked Harry a question the table suddenly became quiet. “Could you repeat that?” he asked Fleur, all eyes were on him.

“Are you seeing anyone?” Fleur repeated.

Harry wished he could use the `langlock' jinx on her but that wouldn't be nice. Keep calm, Potter, he thought. It wasn't the first time someone had asked him that question. He took a quick scan around the table. Remus had a hand covering his mouth. Tonks was busy forking her peas. Hermione wore an expression he only saw whenever she wanted to find something out - that of extreme curiosity. And he knew Ginny had just stamped her foot, accidentally, on her lover's. Fleur was still waiting for his reply. “N-no. No one.” This can't be good.

“Gud. Zen per'aps you'd conseeder going out wit' my seester.”

A mantra of `Think, Potter, think' was running in his head. “I- I can't. There's this… uhm… case… I'm working on. I'm…ahh…busy.” At least he didn't lie; a consolation he thought didn't matter and had no bearing on the situation. Harry pulled at his collar, hoping Fleur would buy the explanation, lame as it was.

The willowy blonde pouted. “Peety. Gabrielle never stops talking about `Arry Potter. Maybe next time.”

He couldn't believe how easy that turned out. He took a sip of pumpkin juice to celebrate the small victory. However, the twins had other plans.

Fred slung an arm over Harry's shoulders. “Nonsense. All work and no play makes for a dull Harry.”

“If Gabrielle isn't your type, you can always take Ginny back,” George followed.

Harry almost choked when he heard this. He was coughing and wheezing, and he spilled juice on his shirt. He mentally swore to kill the twins when he got the chance.

“Easy, Harry. Breathe. We were just kidding,” Fred said while rubbing Harry's back. “As peace offering, we'll fix you up with Verity. How's that sound?”

“Oh no you don't. If anyone here's going to set a date for Harry, it'll be me,” Ron announced. Harry cringed and sunk deeper in his chair. “There's this cheerleader I'm sure you'll like…”

“And you call yourself his best friend? What Harry needs is a woman with a sense of adventure,” Charlie butted in. “Visit Romania some time…”

Much to Harry's chagrin, the conversation centered on his non-existent love life. With Molly, Bill, and even Arthur putting in their two knuts worth. He was grasping at straws looking for a way out. Only a miracle would save him.

As if to answer his silent plea, the fire in the hearth flared up and turned green. Out came Kingsley carrying a book, slightly flushed and out of breath. “We've got it, Harry. The book. We have it.”

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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.

-->

Soul of Evil

Chapter 3

- Solace to a Finite Heart -

The sound of flowing water is reputed to have therapeutic benefits encompassing that, among others, the ability to soothe and calm the human spirit. As far as Harry was concerned it was all bollocks. The running faucet had filled the sink to overflowing, sending cascading sheets of water down the tiled bathroom floor. He gripped both sides of the washbasin, leaning heavily on it because he wasn't sure if he was strong enough to remain upright on his own. His reflection on the mirror stared back at him with bleary green orbs. His eyes stung, though not from dirt, but from unshed tears and the weariness brought by his drained emotions. It had been a long night, with the prospect of an even longer day to come. Kingsley was dead. And it was gruesome.

For a long time he had imagined himself to have gained a certain resistance to this feeling of loss. Years of losing those closest to him should have desensitized any notion of helplessness. Oh, how wrong he was. But he wouldn't allow grief to overtake him. Not yet. The monster was still out there, loose and active - two traits that should be rectified to reflect the opposite. No. There would be a time for grieving afterwards. Right now he had to calm down and think.

He blinks his eyes, and presses a thumb and forefinger into the sockets. Tired. With a sigh, he gathers water into his cupped hands and splashed the cold liquid onto his face. Upon finishing, he goes to the narrow kitchen and sets water to boil. This was a ritual for him. Every time he had to collect himself, he would retreat back to his apartment. Somehow he was able to extract comfort in the repetitious monotony of his abode.

While the water was heating, Harry padded into the bedroom and lay on the bed. It was mid-morning and the only source of light was the peeking sun filtering through the blinds of the room's solitary window, illuminating the ceiling and one side of the room but leaving the other half, with the bed, in shadow. He grunts as he loosens his tie, and proceeds to rub his temples with his thumbs. Then he regulated his breathing, taking very shallow breaths deep in the stomach.

By now the water would be coming to a boil, so off he goes back into the kitchen. It was seldom that he ate here, preferring to take his nourishment at Tim's bar that usually consisted of two parts booze and one part water with the occasional baguette and xoritzo he bought from the nearby deli, which explained the lack of food and kitchen appliance in this area of the apartment. What he did have in ample supply was coffee and tea, stocked in case he needed to stay sober. Of course, that didn't mean he was often drunk. Healthy drinking for the past three years have increased his tolerance level to the substance that he barely got toped no matter how much he drank. Coffee cup in hand, he enters the living room, where he settles on a solitary armchair facing the bay window at a slanted angle.

Three years ago he came upon this particular building at Villiers Street. It was a four-story apartment house of old architectural design, a bit on the rundown side but it nevertheless caught his attention. What attracted him was its superb vantage point of new London - a marriage between regal and grand architecture and the economical and unmerciful, often inarticulate and utilitarian, modern buildings. Across the river and beyond, bloodless, hulking cubes of aluminum and glass broke the skyline. It was this contrast that imaged his emotions back then, and in hindsight, it was his emotions that truly attracted him to this place.

He had been distressed to find out the owner had scheduled the building for demolition, sighting the lack of funds to maintain it standing. He bought the place, then and there. At that time there were four tenets, families, living inside. He'd never met any of them personally, only passing them by chance when he fancied a walk down the stairs, and it never occurred to him to start a conversation beyond the curt nod he gave each of them whenever the opportunity arose. And so, he was thrust into the role of an impromptu landlord, and, by standards, he was doing a bad job at it. Not once did he collect rent.

Four long, noisy sips and the cup was empty, save for the thick dregs. In his lonesome, an odd sense of déjà vu came upon him, that feeling of a ring closing in on him. A ruthless criminal for whom murder and mayhem would be an exercise, a vulgar superior whose insufferable behavior only rivaled his incompetence, and a ministry whose only care was to save face - everything was an analog of his seventh year.

He laid his head on the backrest of the chair, his fingers lightly pressed together, his eyes focused on the horizon outside the window, and he began to deliberately empty his mind, thought by thought, until he had achieved a state of neutrality and balance. The tight sinew of his body began to relax and soften. Once he was totally calm and the cogs in his mind were turning smoothly, he began to review the events of the past day. With the exception of Kingsley, eleven men had fallen: ten aurors and Antoine Spiel, and no trace of a fight had even ensued, the wards themselves were untouched. Not even deatheaters could do that, which spoke dividends about the killer's capabilities. Another thing that disturbed him was the way the killer treated Kingsley. Up until yesterday, every execution was pristine, even clinical, a characteristic that was prevalent even in the bodies he found in Wells. Instead, what happened in the alleyway was of a different nature - marked with savagery and deep-seated malice. He'd seen nothing like it. Kingsley's body was mangled to unrecognizable, as if a feral animal had attacked him, the face and back was almost stripped of flesh, the white bones exposed and pronounced. The scene itself was enough to render a grown man speechless in horror. And through it all, the only one who could tell him anything about what happened was a kid too shocked to even piss properly.

He brought the cup against his lips to take another sip only to find it was already empty. He stood back up and headed for another refill. There was something he had missed. The safe house. How did the killer get in? How did he bring down ten well-trained aurors? They would have spotted an assailant a block away, not to mention the wards would have reacted. Somehow the killer got close enough to ambush them. That or… Harry came down to one distasteful realization: it was possible; it was even likely, that the killer was also an auror.

*****

As soon as Harry stepped into the Department Office Stewart was already by his side. The younger man was saying something and Harry barely heard any of it. He was more intent on reaching the elevator before someone else had the chance to use it.

“Sir?” Stewart said, trying to gain his attention.

A woman was about to enter the parting doors of the lift but Harry beat her to it and punched the button to the basement level. “Sorry. This is taken.” He hardly looked at the woman when he spoke. Stewart, on the other hand, was apologizing profusely up until the doors closed.

“Sir?” Stewart tried again.

“M-m.”

“The Minister came by earlier. He wants you in his office as soon as possible. I told him-“

“He can wait.” Harry knew what Scrimgeour wanted. Over his short career, Harry would occasionally be called to the minister's office. In all those times, he'd been handed full control of a high profile case. This one was no different. Of course, this wasn't a show of respect to Harry's competence. The whole thing was a two-pronged fork. On one side, if he solved the case, the ministry would be saved from embarrassment. On the other side, if he failed, the ministry would have a scapegoat to put all the blame on. “Is Tonks here?”

“Yes, sir. She's talking to Spiel's son right now.”

Harry nodded. It was good to have Tonks back. She'd be perfect in talking to the kid, probably the only one he'd trust to do the work.

Once they got out of the elevator, they were met by a medley of odors; the stale smells of the Forensic Medical Department. The smell of these halls was the product of a heady mixture of potions, floor wax, paint, soap, dust, acrid ink, and finally the strong stench of coffee boiling in a pot for weeks, maybe even months.

This was the sanctuary of Old Man Richard Bartram. Legend has it that he'd been here even before Mad-eye Moody joined the department. So far, no one has come forward to debunk that pseudo fact. The door to Bartram's office is open, and he is talking to one of his assistants while he examines a list on a clipboard, holding it close even though he was wearing glasses as thick as butterbeer bottles. He barks at the assistant to do something by noon and starts scraping the nib of a quill on the clipboard, then cocks a head toward the door. “Who's that?” he demanded.

“Harry.”

“Well, come in then! Merlin's sake, don't hover. Coffee?” The old man traces a hand at the ledge of a table until his fingers graze a cup. Dipping a finger into it and finding it to be quite wet, he deduced that the cup was his. He once again follows the edge of the table to find another cup, and finding one, turns it upside down. A few cigarette butts fall to the floor. He fills the cup and thrusts it at Harry. “Only one cup left, I'm afraid. Does your young friend want one?”

“No. He's fine,” Harry answered. He had a feeling Stewart did not share Bartram's minimum standard of hygiene.

In his own right, Bartram was an epic character in the storied history of the department as Moody and Harry were. He is famous, of course, for his cauldron. The contents of which could hardly be identified. Being an Englishman, there is no doubt that the pot once held tea. Over the years, Bartram found it too troublesome to remove the cauldron from the fire so he just kept adding water and tea and later on, coffee, and after that, who knows? Needless to say, the taste and texture of the brew was ghastly.

Like Harry and Moody, Bartram was a bachelor who logged in copious amounts of man-hours deep in the bowels of the department. And as such, he imposed upon himself duties that far encompassed that of a normal staff pathologist. His authority expanding whenever a vacuum was created by a departing man or a new need arose and the position had yet to be filled. The whole department would collapse if this man were gone for more than a day.

“I suppose you're here for the body.”

“Yes.”

Another cup of coffee, the old man shook his head and motioned for them to follow. The temperature in the back room was frigid, more than usual. Now it was apparent why Bartram took two full helpings of his brew. “Nasty business, if you know what I mean. You might not like what you'll see.”

“It can't be helped.”

Kingsley was held in a separate room. The staff did a god job in cleaning the body. However, it only revealed the true extent of the damage. Harry initially thought Kingsley was slashed to death with a blade of some sort. What was in front of him was made by no weapon or spell he had ever seen. Kingsley's back was a pulsating, seething rip, like something had erupted from inside out. What did his friend encounter in that alley?

The old man put on a pair of gloves and a mask, then approached the body from the other side across Harry. “No marks of bruising. No puncture wounds. No magical residue. We've managed to contain the wound by lowering the temperature a few degrees. But as you can see, just barely.” Bartram paused. Harry's jaw was clenched and his hands were balled into fists. “Do you want to continue?”

“What did this?”

Bartram's lips stretched into a thin line.

“Please.”

Bartram finally relented. “His blood is boiling. The blood vessels along the spine up to the head had literally burst open. And it isn't just that,” he pointed to a singed area of skin around the wound then to the protruding vertebral column, “whatever did this was hot enough to melt skin and bleach bone. It's quite a feat leaving the flesh uncooked.” He stopped as if in deep thought. “You won't be closing this one easily.” His voice revealed bitterness at the ending and Harry understood the significance of that. It was the old codger's way of telling him to be careful.

“Is there anything else?” Harry asked.

“Not until we finish the postmortem.”

“Can I ask you a favor?”

“You want me to hold the press release?”

“For a couple of days.” By departmental practice, information concerning murder, suicide, or rape cases is not released to the newspapers until Bartram had finished his examination and the next of kin are informed. It was a custom of Harry to go about his business before the prophet made a carnival out of the case. Besides, he owed it to Kingsley to tell Lissa.

At this point, both of them had just noticed Stewart taking a closer look at the body, wand out and about to poke at something under the curved spine. In fact, he was too close.

“Boy! What are you doing?” Bartram boomed.

“I saw a sliver. If I could just-“ The moment his wand touched a quivering vessel, hot blood sprayed out, catching Stewart on the face and shirt.

Bartram was livid. This was his territory, and no one does anything here without the old man's consent. Harry grabbed Stewart by the collar and rushed the younger man outside while telling Bartram to notify him once the autopsy was done.

“That was stupid!”

“I'm sorry, sir. I thought I saw something-“

“It's all right. Just don't do that again. C'mon. I hope you've got an extra shirt.”

*****

“Have you heard of Harry Potter?”

The boy looked at Tonks with innocent eyes and tentatively bobbed his head up and down.

“Would you like to meet him?”

“I can?”

For the better part of the morning, Tonks had spent her time talking to Jason Spiel and this was the first time she had heard the boy utter a word. It was good judgment to take the boy out the medical ward. Somehow, the fussing of the healers increased the boy's apprehension to open up.

No one could really blame the kid. She herself was still reeling from what happened to Kingsley. They've been partners the longest and the news was just too hard to take.

She sucked in a breath and put on the best smile she could muster. “M-hm. See there,” she said, pointing at a desk, “that's where he works. And when he comes back, I'll introduce you.”

“Promise?”

“Now, why would I lie to such a cute boy like you?” she said before placing a kiss on Jason's forehead. She watched the boy fish out a crumpled note from his pocket and extended a hand to Tonks. “Is this for me?”

*****

Harry opened the door to his office followed close by Stewart who was already unbuttoning his stained shirt. Both were caught unawares by the sudden scream coming from the boy that clung desperately at Tonks, tears streaming down his cheeks and trying to burrow his head deeper into Tonks' bosom, a finger pointing at a shocked Stewart.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare him,” Stewart pleaded, scratching the back of his head.

Tonks gathered the child into her arms and rushed outside, glaring at Stewart as she passed. All the while, the boy kept crying up a storm.

“Don't worry. She isn't angry with you. Just your timing,” Harry said, to settle Stewart's nerves. The greenhorn was having a string of bad luck.

Moments later, Tonks returned with a scowl on her face. “Have you two any idea how long it took to get him to talk?” She leaned on her desk, a hand gently rubbing her forehead. “That may have been the only chance we had to find anything out of him.”

Harry raised his eyes toward Tonks. He'd been looking at the drawer that held his stash of liquor, contemplating if it would be wise to take a swig, just to numb him for the rest of the day. “Why?”

“The mother's flying in today. She's taking Jason with her overseas.”

“Why is that a problem?”

“Don't you get it? She doesn't want anything to do with us. Spiel never told her he was a wizard. That's why they broke up. That's why… that's why…”

The outburst from Tonks was unexpected. The last time Harry saw her this way was when they thought Remus had died. “Stew, go tell the minister I'll see him after lunch.” Stewart was about to say something but one look from Harry changed his mind. He silently went out and gently closed the door.

Harry knew the minister wouldn't like his reply and might take it out on Stewart but, right now, his immediate concern was Tonks. Problem was, it was Tonks who usually knew what to say in these situations. Him? He knew next to nothing. A few steps later and he found himself standing in front of Tonks. He still wasn't sure what to say. And she was quietly sobbing now. “We'll get him… for Kingsley.”

She snorted, a crooked smile graced her lips. “You're terrible at this, you know.”

“Sorry.”

“Oh, you.”

Harry found her arms around him in a tight embrace. He gingerly returned the gesture.

“I miss him, Harry.”

“I miss him too.” After a brief silence, he added: “Will you be okay?”

When they parted, she was rubbing her eyes but was otherwise all right. “Yeah.” It was then that she remembered what Jason had given her. The crinkled note was on her table.

“What's that,” Harry asked, glancing at where she was looking.

“Jason gave it to me before you two came in.” She opened the note, half-expecting a drawn picture with crayons. Instead, inside was something she'd come to be familiar with in the course of the case. The message belonged to the killer.

*****

The historic railroad hotel next to Liverpool Street Station, The Great Eastern, has had its share of guests since it opened its doors in 1884. Politicians, celebrities, athletes, and commoners alike, but none rivaled the number of robed aurors that now stood outside Guestroom 87.

With the location and number of rooms available, the Great Eastern Hotel was a favorite haunt of transients, including those that just want to make a quick getaway from the bustle of the city, and in some cases, just to get away. It wasn't at all strange to find a room reserved or paid up for months on end. No one here asked questions. Especially when a `do not disturb' sign hung on a doorknob outside a room.

It was to such a room that the killer's message led them, where aurors now prepared a breach. Harry watched as aurors lined up on both sides of the door, ready to spring into action at his command.

“There's no sign of wards, sir,” Stewart reported.

If past track were to be relied upon, the killer did not need that kind of protection. And in another angle they were considering, that if the killer was muggle-born, there was the prospect of the door being booby-trapped by a non-magical device. However, he believed that wasn't likely, muggle-born or not. He was beginning to form an idea of the killer in his mind. Beginning, even, to understand his character. He believed the killer wouldn't stoop to such things. Still, hearing that there were no wards did not put Harry at ease in the very least. Harry closed his eyes, deeply weighing the situation.

“Everyone's ready, Harry,” Tonks said from behind.

Decision made, he gave the signal.

An alohomora spell unlocked the door but it did not swing open. The lead auror pushed harder. The door remained stubbornly closed; a sticky, ripping sound could be heard from inside. A final kick, and the door gave way. Like a shot, the stench of decay rushed at every one present, making those closest reel and gasp for air as the offensive smell assaulted their senses.

With a hand covering his nose, Harry charged inside. The room had been sealed by duct tape. Door, windows, exhausts, every conceivable hole was plastered. The air was so thick and humid it made the act of breathing a labor in itself. His eyes were equally irritated; they felt like they've been submerged open in muddy water. And the very dust made his skin cringe.

Everything else in the room seemed untouched. From the bed to the closet to the curtains, no one could tell if anyone had ever been there before. Except, from the faint sound coming from the bathroom: a faint buzzing could be heard inside along with the sound of a dripping faucet.

“Flies,” Stewart's muffled voice, the lower half of his face covered by a handkerchief, came from across the room. He was pointing to the bathroom.

The buzzing got louder as Harry got closer to the lavatory, and indeed flies were present in excess. Peering in, he could see the source of the foul smell: a man was lying in a tub a third full of rancid water, face down with his back open for anyone who entered to see. The state of decomposition was far advanced. By estimation, the body had been in there not less than a month.

*****

“If I'd have known you'd come for a visit this soon, I would have put a new pot for you,” Bartram announced when Harry came in. The old man was scribbling away on his desk where stacks of parchment defied gravity with their height. Bartram grunted, a sign he had passed gas. “Monthly report,” he explained.

It looked more than a month to Harry. He didn't point that out, however. If anyone could sympathize with Bartram, it was Harry. They both shared the same aversion to paperwork, often letting weeks and months pass by before signing a single memo. If it weren't for Tonks, his team would be backlogged with paperwork for years.

Harry took the seat in front of Bartram's desk. The nib still scratched furiously on the parchment and Harry wondered when the old man would emerge from his sisyphusian task.

“The minister should promote you already if he's going to pull this stunt over and over again,” Bartram said, with not a hint of taking a break from signing papers. Then he continued: “Right, sir? Boss? Whatever you want to be called.”

“Only Stewart calls me `sir' around here,” Harry chuckled. He had just finished meeting with the minister and he was feeling slightly better. Not a whole lot, but better. As he expected, the minister had given him the authority to do as he pleased with the case. Robards stood there to the side without as much as a peep. “Besides, it's only temporary.”

“Should be permanent, if you ask me. Then you can do something about these blasted reports. Don't they know I'm old? My hand is aching from all this writing!”

“You could always get a secretary.”

Again Bartram grunted. Appalled that Harry would even suggest the thought. “No way I'm letting prying eyes in my ship, boy. Didn't they teach you anything in training?”

“A lot, actually.”

“Hmph! Aurors today are soft, in my opinion. Excluding you of course.”

“Of course.”

“These yellows think they know everything. They don't respect the old ways.”

“Yellows?”

“It's what the French call their rookies. Jaunes. Yellows.”

Harry's expression says he still doesn't get it.

“Yellow… the color of baby shit,” Bartram explains.

“Ah.”

Bartram shoves the routine papers and memos away with a growl and starts rummaging through his drawers. When he had finished, a dossier was in his hand. He tosses it toward Harry. “Your bather's name is Robert Spencer, historian, aged 42, time of death is one month, three weeks and five days. Everything else's in there.”

“Is there anything you left out from the report?” As insulting as the question might seem, it wasn't. Bartram had the habit of leaving out bits of information in his reports, so he could finish them quicker. Moody had been kind enough to tell Harry about this fact when he was still new to the department.

“A great deal. I could tell you things with differing importance like the true purpose of Stonehenge, or how half-giants came to be, but I suspect your interest is more restrictive than that. All right. How about this? Your bather was already dead for hours before he was opened.”

In the past weeks Harry felt as if he'd been handed a jigsaw puzzle to solve, only the pieces didn't belong to the same set. Now the killer had sent another piece of the puzzle and a picture is starting to form. But of what? It felt like the murders were a countdown to an end he had no idea of.

This last murder only added to the confusion. They were led to Room 87 of the Grand Eastern Hotel where they found a body that was in the M.O. of the killer. Aside from the body, there was nothing else in the room. There was a glaring difference from past murders however - the killer did not leave a clue. Did that mean this was his last kill? Clearly not. The time of death does not correspond to that conclusion. Or is this kill the first? Then why wasn't there a clue pointing to the second victim? And what of the bodies in Llanwrtyd Wells?

“Well? What do you make of it?”

“I - I'm not sure,” Harry answered. Something was terribly off.

*****

After a quick briefing of his new team and relocating the office to the larger conference room to accommodate more work, he sent everyone home except for those he picked to work the night shift. Adamant as he was to keep going through the night, it just wasn't possible. People needed rest. And to some, like Tonks, time, even if a bit, to mourn the passing of a friend. He himself was close to burnout and he still had a lot of things to go over and more things to do. He also had an errand to keep.

It was closing time in the National Museum and Harry had busied himself with looking at the painting Kingsley was so fond of while waiting for Lissa to get off from work. This was where the lovers first met and continued to meet everyday. It was sick irony it would be here that he had to tell her of his passing.

He idly thought about his own state. Would someone tell Hermione he loved her when he died. That somehow death would allow him to accomplish what he failed to in life. Remus or Tonks, probably. But what would that accomplish? More sorrow. No. He refused to bring that upon her. Not on Hermione.

The Angel of Pain stared down at Harry with sad eyes and he thought that the painting could see into his soul. The angel unfurled her wings, black and sleek, like stormy clouds set in the sky. She presented herself to him - burnished skin the color of bronze, glowing like heat; hands bedecked with talons, curved and polished; her tresses, silvery in hue, pure and perfect; and the pike that impaled her, exiting where her heart would be. She continues to look at him with her sad eyes, eyes the color of ashes. He tried to understand her but couldn't. Perhaps that was her true pain. The inability to express herself. To never express her love. And maybe, that was his fate as well.

Harry shook his head, suddenly not feeling well. He was drifting again, something he trained himself not to do but continued to do regardless. Guilt began to invade him. It was for Kingsley that he had come here. Not to pity himself. Turning around, he found himself facing a smiling Lissa.

“What a surprise Harry. You came with Kingsley?”

Harry inwardly braced himself for what he was about to do, his stomach churning even as his mouth began to open.

=============

Immensely sorry. It's been a long wait, myself included. It's hard to settle in another country and I'm still adjusting. Can't say I'll update soon but I'll try to write more if time permits. `nyway, ja ne.

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