The White Rose by M_And



Summary: A series of grisly murders shatters the peace and serenity of the post-Voldemort era. The only clue – a single withered white rose that is found with each of the victims. Harry Potter, Head of the Auror Department, must race against time to try and stop the killer before they can strike again.
Rating: PG-13 starstarstarstarhalf-star
Categories: Alternate Universe, Post-DH/PM
Characters: None
Genres: None
Warnings: None
Challenges: None
Series: None
Published: 2010.07.25
Updated: 2011.10.16


Index

Chapter 1: Chapter 1 >“I do not know the magic that could bring you back.”
Chapter 2: Chapter 2 - When I’ve Plucked This Rose...
Chapter 3: Chapter 3 - “…It Will Have No Choice But To Wither And Die.”


Chapter 1: Chapter 1 >“I do not know the magic that could bring you back.”

Author's Notes: AN: A few weeks back, my friend and fellow author, St. Margarets, submitted a story (here at SIYE, please give it a read as well), “Fourteen Ways of Looking at a Flower.” The story was a series of vignettes involving characters from the Harry Potter series and that in some way featured flowers. One of those vignettes dealt with a murderer who always left a single white rose at the scene of the crime. In my review, I suggested that St. Margaret should expand the vignette into a story. Long-story-made-short, she challenged me to write it instead. I accepted, but asked her to consult on the project so that the story would remain true to her vision. Next to the collaboration and dialogue I have with my betas, it has been one of the most beneficial and enjoyable writing experiences that I’ve had. Thank you Mary for allowing me to use your idea and for your guidance along the way.

As always, I need to acknowledge my beta’s, cwarbeck and Spenser Hemmingway. The advice and encouragement I get from them is invaluable, and they make me look like a much more competent writer than I really am. Thanks Cel and Eric!


Chapter 1

“I do not know the magic that could bring you back.”

(Othello Act 5, Scene 2 by William Shakespeare)




Could it get any creepier? Cho Chang wondered nervously as she tried to look through the thick fog rolling up from the Bristol Channel. The squall that had been brewing in the Celtic Sea for the past several days had finally made land during the middle of the Quidditch match with the Montrose Magpies. The sudden fierce storm was a harbinger that summer’s time was nearing an end. The violent tempest had made for near impossible playing conditions before abating near the end of the match to a steady rain and a murky fog. Mercifully for the Tutshill players and their fans, the match finally came to an end. The sodden players quickly changed and bustled out of the locker room, eager to get home and out of the inhospitable weather. Cho, the Tornados Seeker, had been the last to leave the pitch, owing to her need for healing after ploughing into the turf during the match.

Between the fog and the mist, she couldn't see more than a few feet in any direction and was beginning to wish she had asked for someone to wait for her so that she could walk home with them. The night seemed to close in on her, making her feel uneasy. Current events certainly added to that feeling.

The peace and serenity of the post-Voldemort era had been shattered over the past few weeks. Several grisly and highly publicized murders had disrupted the calm of the Wizarding World, like a stone tossed into a still pond. The ripples of fear spread out amongst the witches and wizards across England. The Ministry of Magic was justifiably concerned for the population’s safety and was pooling all their considerable resources to catch the murderer, but still had no leads or suspects.

Despite the unusual circumstances surrounding the killings, Cho didn't really think she had anything to worry about. Tutshill was a tiny, out of the way village, whose only claims to fame were an old ruined watch tower and the Tornados. Still, it wouldn't hurt to keep moving right along, she thought anxiously. The squelching sound of the mud sucking at her feet came more frequently as she pressed on towards home.

As Cho struggled along the lonely path that led from the Quidditch pitch into the tiny village of Tutshill where she lived, her thoughts turned to the match she had just played.

“Bloody Maggie Lochrin and her ruddy Wronski Feint in stormy weather!” she muttered irritably as she schlepped on blindly through the murk. It galled her that she had fallen for the Montrose Seeker's ploy — something that had cost the Tornados the match. “How bloody gullible can I be?” she spat out disgustedly. The only thing that irked her more was that she had broken her wand when she crashed. It was her special Quidditch wand; willow for flexibility with a single hair from a unicorn mare. The handle was wrapped in dragon-hide leather, which gave it a superior grip in inclement weather. Her long-time boyfriend, Michael Corner, had given it to her as a gift when she moved up from the Tornados reserve team to become the starting Seeker. They broke up not long after that. Michael had seemed to think the gift merited him “special privileges.”

Guess it is back to my old school wand, she thought morosely. It was a serviceable wand with its unicorn hair core, but she didn't like the dull, dark oak.

Her underwhelming performance tonight also had her thinking about retirement — again. At forty-one, she knew she was already several years past the time when most professional Quidditch players stowed their brooms and gear for good, and moved on to something else. She had sacrificed everything to keep playing. Marriage and children were luxuries that witches couldn't afford if they wanted to play for very long. Now that she was nearing the end of her career, she sometimes questioned whether it was worth it.

Cho shook her head to try and chase away her gloomy thoughts. She continued to stumble along the slippery, uneven path, wishing that her feet wouldn't sink so far down into the mud and slow her down. She would feel better once she was back in her cozy little house with a usable wand nearby. With that thought firmly in mind, she tried to pick up her pace as she trudged on through the thickening fog.

The path ahead started to bend sharply to the right when Cho suddenly tripped and fell face first onto the muddy path in an audible Splat! She raised her head, and began to clear the muck from her face and eyes, and caught sight of a white blur on the path. Using her robes to clear more mud from her eyes, she cautiously reached out and grabbed the object. She gasped in pain as she felt her fingers pricked by thorns. A cold dread began to worm its way into her consciousness as she stared at a withered white rose in her hand; just like the ones found at the scenes of the murders. She stifled a panicky sob as she strained to see past the blanket of fog that hid everything from her. She knew she couldn't stay where she was, but where could she go? She was still a good kilometer from her home, and not yet near enough to the village to call out for help. Fear began to paralyze her even as her mind froze with indecision. She had no wand and a bum leg, and she knew there was a killer close by, watching. She struggled to rise to her feet. She'd be damned if she gave up without a fight. After all, she had been a member of Dumbledore's Army, and Harry Potter had trained them all for situations just like this.

She never saw the Bludger that broke both her legs; there was only blinding shock and agonizing pain. The Bludger shot out of the mist like a cannon ball to strike again, crushing her upper arm and caving in her ribs. She gasped soundlessly, the pain excruciating, as she tried in vain to take air into her collapsed lungs. Tears of frustration, pain, and anger mixed with mud and grime as they rolled down her cheeks. She was helpless and she knew it. At the last instant she saw the cursed Bludger streaking for her head, before merciful darkness took her. The pale skin of her ruined face was stained with blood and mud, much like the withered white petals of the flower still clutched in her hand.


The killer waited in eager anticipation as the victim approached the section of the path where the attack would begin. The other murders assuaged the pain a little, but this one...this moment had been one of the most anticipated ones; the killer was almost giddy with excitement.

The killer checked again to make sure everything was well concealed. It wouldn’t do to have identities being discovered at this point. The fog and mist were welcome allies, and the assassin’s dark, gray clothing blended into the nighttime murkiness perfectly. The storm that had hit earlier in the evening couldn't have come at a better time. The special blurring cream which hid the killer’s features would last for several more hours. That was probably the revenge seeker’s most brilliant creation — a cream that muddled up the user’s features so that others couldn't recognize them. In actual fact, the killer didn’t see themselves as a murderer, but rather as a bringer of long awaited justice.

A surprised grunt followed by the muted splat of mud as she hit the sodden ground hard alerted the killer that Cho Chang was in place. The Muggle trick of using a trip cord had worked well. The killer knew the victim was just now finding the withered white rose, the ancient symbol of revenge and death.

It was time. The killer moved noiselessly closer to the object of their retribution, wand at the ready. The murderer could just make out the victim's form in the fog. Straining to perform the curse non-verbally, the bringer-of-justice sent the Bludger darting off to perform its mission of revenge.

The killer watched with grim satisfaction as the Bludger finished its brutal attack. So much for the great Cho Chang, the assassin thought a bit smugly. They would all pay for what they had done, the torment and agony the killer had been forced to live with all these years, but Cho's death...well, the killer could only describe the feeling brought about by the Asian woman’s death as something akin to rapture.

Using an old broom, the killer retraced their steps, brushing any evidence of their passage out of existence. “Let the Aurors figure this out,” the killer cackled manically. “On to the next one on the list.” Then with a loud pop, the murderer Disapparated away.


She's bloody amazing! he thought, a goofy grin plastered on his face as he watched his wife swoop down over their children, showing them the moves that had made her a star Chaser. The Potter family were enjoying a glorious late summer evening in the Welsh countryside. Ginny had suggested that, since the children were so full of energy during dinner that maybe a few flying drills would be just the thing to take the edge off them before bedtime. Doesn't really matter what we're doing, he mused as he sat there admiring the athletic grace of his wife, as long as we're all doing it together.

Ginny landed on the back lawn as she continued to watch her children perform the flying drill she had demonstrated for them. Harry shared her pride in their children’s abilities. James had been on the Gryffindor House team for several years, and Albus and Lily seemed likely candidates to succeed some of the graduating seventh years in the upcoming fall term.
Ginny sidled up to Harry, and put her arms around his waist. “Knut for your thoughts,” she said huskily, placing a tender kiss on his lips.

“Just admiring my wife’s form,” he said teasingly.

She chuckled at his double meaning. “Is that all that’s running around in that head of yours, or was there more?”

He looked into her warm brown eyes, trying to keep the mischief out of his green ones. “I was just wondering what a stag tattooed on your bum would look like,” he said in mock seriousness, casually casting out the verbal bait.

Ginny swatted his arm. “Are you going to get the horntail on your chest?” she countered, taking the bait without realizing there was a hook.

And now to reel her in. “I will get a horntail tattooed on my chest when you get the stag on your bum,” Harry calmly stated.

“I wanted to years ago,” she sputtered in exasperation, “but you said it would be a shame to mar a very nice looking bum!”

“And so it is, my love,” he said, grinning, patting her posterior.

Ginny finally realized she’d been had. It wasn’t often he got the better of her. “Well played, Mr. Potter. Nice to know that you still have your wits about you, even in your advanced years.”

Harry smiled down indulgently at his wife of nineteen years as he wrapped his arms around her. Even though it had been seventeen years since she had played Quidditch professionally, she still looked like she could put on a Harpies' uniform and be starting Chaser for Gwenog Jones.

At thirty-nine, Ginny Potter actually was still in good enough shape to go back and play if she wanted to. Harry had asked her several times over the years if she might not want to play again, but her response was always the same, “Raising our children, and being your wife is all I want at the moment.” It probably didn't hurt that she was the Senior Quidditch editor for the Prophet. She got to stay connected to all the players and her friends without having to go through one of Gwenog's marathon training sessions.

“Forty makes me a right old geezer, does it?” he quipped as he leaned down and nuzzled her neck. The shiver that ran down her spine had nothing to do with the cool evening air.

She moved her head to the side to give him better access to her neck. “I’ll admit, you’re still pretty spry for an old gaffer,” she said breathlessly has she placed a trail of kisses along his jaw line. Harry groaned in delight.

“I’m surprised you’d snog an old codger like me,” he said haltingly as he slowly kissed his way back to Ginny's soft lips, putting just enough pressure into the kiss to make her lips turn red. Both were oblivious of their surroundings, and neither heard the distinct sound of someone Apparating into the yard.

“Ugh! My bloody eyes are going to need to be plucked from my head!” a disgruntled male voice said. “Don't you two ever give it a rest? You’ve chased your children into the house, for Merlin’s sake!”

Harry felt Ginny's hands clamp tightly onto his shoulders in annoyance as he looked up to see their kids ducking through the back porch door. “Un-bloody-believable!” she spat under her breath so that only Harry could hear. “How does he always manage to ruin a perfectly good romantic moment?”

“He's had lots of practice over the years,” Harry answered, while gently rubbing her shoulders to ease her tension. He needed to mollify Ginny so that she didn't send her brother back home to Hermione in need of a Healer’s visit — again.

She snorted at that comment, then laid her forehead on her husband's chest. “What do you want, Ron?” she asked, her voice muffled by Harry's dark blue jumper.

“Stopped by to get Harry,” he said somewhat apologetically. “We've been called into the office to help investigate a crime scene.”

“Why not let the Aurors on duty handle it?” Harry asked suspiciously.

“There's been another murder,” he replied cryptically. Ron's response had sobered Harry up immediately.

Ginny's head popped up, and she looked into her brother's eyes. “Who?” she asked, sounding not at all sure that she wanted to know the answer. The victims up to this point had all been acquaintances from school.

“I don't know all the details yet,” Ron said guardedly. “All I know for sure is that the victim was one of the Tutshill Tornado players.”

Harry looked down at Ginny with a looked that conveyed regret. “I'm going to have to go, Gin. I'll need to coordinate the investigation. There will be press to deal with…it could be a long night. Will you and the kids be all right?”

“We'll be fine, Harry,” she assured him, fussing with a thread from his jumper. “The protective wards are all in place, the house is unplottable, and the Fidelius Charm is working fine. No one can find us. It's me who will be worried about you.”

“I'll be fine, Gin,” he said, hoping to reassure her. “Aside from being able to take care of myself, as Head of the Auror Department I'll have a slew of Aurors around me.” He rolled his eyes at that, knowing full well that it would be true.

He turned back towards Ron. “I need to go change right quick, and then we can be off.” Harry turned and jogged to the house.

Ginny pulled her gaze from her departing husband to her nervous brother. “All right Ron, spill,” she said pointedly. “You know who the victim is, don't you?”

Ron lowered his head sadly. “Yeah, I do,” he said quietly. “It's Cho Chang.”

Ginny's knees almost gave out. Cho Chang. Her rival for Harry's affections in school. She'd forgotten that Cho stilled played for the Tornados.

“How?”

“How'd she die?” Ron asked to confirm her question. “She was beaten to death by a Bludger.”

Ginny gasped in horror. She'd had many an uncharitable thought regarding her hated rival, but she would never have wished that on her. She had no doubts where Harry's heart was concerned. She knew she was the only one he would ever love, but it didn't stop the momentary pang of jealousy from springing up out of her over the grief he would surely feel at her death. She crushed the feeling immediately. It wasn't right or proper. Cho was dead. Her memory needed to be celebrated, not castigated.

She was snapped out of her reverie by a gentle thumb wiping away tears on her cheeks. She looked up to see Harry in his Auror robes looking down at her in concern. “I'll be fine, Harry,” she said more confidently than she felt. “Go do what you need to do. The kids and I will be fine.”

He gave her a tender kiss, before turning to join Ron at the Apparation point on the edge of the yard. She watched forlornly as they Disapparated away.

An all too familiar sense of worry settled queasily into her stomach. “Be safe, Harry, and come home to me,” she whispered, before turning and heading up the lawn into the house.


Harry took a deep breath, and looked away from Cho Chang's corpse. It didn't take a detailed inspection of the body to see that she'd been brutally murdered. Her shins were bent at unnatural angles, her upper arm was pushed into her rib cage, and worst of all was her face. If someone hadn't told him this was Cho, he'd never have recognized her. And what was with the ruddy withered white rose? It was the fourth one they found. Seeing another withered rose had him recalling the details of the other three murders.

The first victim had been Morag MacDougal. The former Ravenclaw was forty, the same age as himself. Morag's family produced high quality cauldrons. It was at the family owned foundry, where the metal for the cauldrons was melted and poured into moulds, that they found what was left of her body. One of the moulds had somehow fallen and dumped the fiery liquid metal on her head and shoulders, burning away most of her upper body. The withered white rose was laying a few yards away, wilted even more because of the heat.

The second victim, Lisa Turpin, was also a former Ravenclaw. She too had been Harry's age. She worked for Zonko's as a product evaluator. She had been testing lots of a new party favour that shot off a mini-fountain of fireworks, and ended in a loud bang. Apparently, the last one she tested did more than go off with a loud bang. When they found her, half her face had been blown off, and the withered white rose was found on her work bench.

Finally there was Orla Quirke, again from Ravenclaw. She had been a few years behind Harry in school. Her murder had been a little more prosaic. She was found at home by her husband. The ensuing investigation determined that her face had been blown off by a blasting curse, and of course, the withered white rose was near the body.

Harry shook his head in disgust. One would have to be an idiot not to see that these murders were connected. For starters, all the victims were Ravenclaws, and they were all near in age. Then there was that blasted withered white rose. Countless hours of digging through the dusty volumes in the Auror library had turned up no answers. He had about half decided that he would ask for Hermione’s help on that one. If anyone could solve that riddle, it was his studious sister-in-law.

“There’s something else going on here!” he said in frustration to no one in particular. None of the murders were committed the same way, but all of them had hideously disfigured the victim. Surely that meant something. “There’s got to be some clue we’ve over looked! Some clue we’ve missed!” he spat, viciously punching an inoffensive tree.

Ron walked over and put a consoling hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Easy mate, I know you’re upset over Cho’s murder…”

“Not any more so than the other three unfortunate victims,” Harry responded in exasperation.

Ron raised a sceptical eyebrow in response.

Harry gave him a level look. “Seriously Ron, I haven’t talked to, or thought about, Cho Chang since Ginny quit playing professionally. It’s not like we were good friends or anything.”

“Mate, she was your first crush, the first girl you kissed! Are you actually saying her death doesn’t mean more than the others?” Ron asked in disbelief.

“Yeah, that’s what I’m saying, Ron.” Harry responded with a note of finality in his voice. In truth, Harry wasn’t sure how he felt about Cho’s murder. He really wasn’t any more upset about it than he was with the other victims, yet at the same time her death seemed weird in a way he couldn’t quite explain. One thing was for sure, he didn’t have the time or luxury of worrying over it at the moment. “Let’s stay focused on the case, shall we? I’m mauling trees because I’m frustrated. I know there’s something more to these murders that we’re missing, and it’s gnawing at my insides.”

“Well we won’t learn much more here,” Ron said, stifling a yawn. “The guys have combed the place over, and there’s next to nothing for clues. We might as well head back to Headquarters. I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be a long night.”

Harry shoulders slumped in resignation as he shook his head in agreement, not realizing how true Ron’s words would be.

Back to index


Chapter 2: Chapter 2 - When I’ve Plucked This Rose...

Author's Notes: A few months back, my friend and fellow author, St. Margarets, submitted a story, “Fourteen Ways of Looking at a Flower.” The story was a series of vignettes that involved characters from the Harry Potter series and that in some way featured flowers. One of those vignettes dealt with a murderer who left a single white rose at the scene of the crime. Long story short, I couldn’t talk her into expanding the piece into a longer story. Instead, she challenged me to do it. This is my take on St. Margaret’s vignette – The White Rose. I would be remiss if I didn’t thank her for a great story idea, and for the much appreciated advice and support she’s given as I’ve worked on this story. Thanks St. M!

I am one of the most fortunate writers on this (or possibly any other) site. I’m collaborating with a very talented author, and then get to rely on two more very talented authors for advice and beta skills. I’m also fortunate to be able to call them all my friends. I really need to thank cwarbeck and Spenser Hemmingway for their efforts on my behalf. I’m sure they’ve both shook their heads in amazement and had good laughs at some of the silly errors I’ve made on a repeated basis. Thanks Cel and Eric for making me readable!


The White Rose

by M_And



Chapter 2

“When I’ve Plucked This Rose, I Can’t Make It Grow Again.”

(Othello Act 5, Scene 2 by William Shakespeare)




The evening shadows and the low hanging oak branches made the killer’s disillusionment cloak and blurring cream superfluous. The chorus of night sounds rose in a crescendo, faded, and then repeated as the killer waited for the next victim. The chirping crickets and croaking toads seemed to combine in a syncopated rhythm that only lacked a melody to complete it.

The killer wrapped the unnecessary disillusionment cloak tighter around what most would consider a spare frame. The cloak was a work of genius, yet an immature prankster invented it. I’ll never understand how such a bloody fool like George Weasley ever comes up with such brilliant ideas, the killer thought peevishly, annoyed at the WWW owner’s uncanny ability and success. It matters not; his own cleverness will be his undoing.

The approaching sound of shuffling feet abruptly ended the killer’s musings. It was time to focus. Another tormentor from the past was about to take their last breath.

**********

Michael Corner shuffled and stumbled his way along the cobblestone walk that led to his house. He sniffled and wiped away the seemingly continuous flow of mournful tears before taking another swig of Ogden’s best. He had long since lost the ability to feel the fiery liquid burning his mouth and throat as it raced down to his belly. A long day followed by a long night of drinking had done little to dull the pain and grief that threatened to overwhelm him. “I can’t believe she’s gone,” he sobbed in agony. “I always thought…hoped…” Overwhelming grief stopped him from finishing the sentiment.

He made his way to the front door and fumbled around in his pocket for the key. His whisky-numbed fingers bobbled the key, and then dropped it. He was to slow to see it bounce off the front step and into the lawn. “Bloody buggering hell!” he swore, as he unsteadily got down on his hands and knees and began to feel around for the lost key. His groping fingers grasped something sharp and thorny. Michael pulled the object before his unfocused eyes and looked at it, trying to get his whisky soaked brain to process what he was seeing.

He started to chuckle mirthlessly as the answer sloshed into his alcohol-fogged consciousness. He was holding a wilted white rose between his bloody fingers. “I know you’re out there, you toss pot!” he yelled, his words badly slurred. “Show yourself!” He lurched to his knees and fumbled for his wand, but only found the neck of an empty whisky bottle.

He heard quiet footfalls and the rustling of fabric approaching him, but he couldn’t see anything but a slight distortion in front of him. He assumed the blurry image was a result of too much drink, but then he noticed that everything was sharper off to the sides. It slowly started to dawn on him that he was a dead man, and wished he could find it in himself to care.

“At least have the balls to show your face before you kill me,” he croaked out, his voice thick with suppressed emotion.

There was a long pause before the killer finally responded. “I think not.”

Michael thought there was something vaguely familiar with how the killer talked. He struggled with the familiarity until recognition seeped through and almost shocked him into sobriety. “You!” he rasped out harshly. “Why?”

A disembodied hand appeared in front of him holding a wand. “Diffindo! Diffindo! Diffindo!” The killer quickly yelled, aiming the wand at the doomed wizard’s unprotected throat and face.

Michael Corner dropped face first onto the lawn like a felled tree, clutching his ruined throat, oblivious to the pain he felt from the wounds that sliced off his nose and ruined his eyes. As he lay there gasping for breath that gurgled out the vicious wound in his neck, the killer bent down to make sure he could hear. “Because, my dear Michael, all of you share in the pain and deformity I have had to live with for the past twenty-five years, and I swear by all that’s holy, all of you will feel my revenge,” the killer hissed. A satisfied smile crossed the killer’s blurred face at the image of Michael Corner’s body sinking into death. “I trust you’ll keep my secret,” the killer taunted, and then Disapparated away.

Michael heard the POP of the killer’s exit, and slowly brought his hand away from his ruined throat, holding the blood covered fingers up as he swept the ground in search of the walkway. May you rot in hell! he cursed, and with his last conscious thought, traced two letters in blood onto the cobblestones.

**********

“Right then, so not to belabour the point, but what do we know?” Harry asked his group of dispirited Aurors. They were gathered back at Headquarters, picking through the few sparse details they had gleaned from the murders to date. They were sprawled around an old beat-up oak table, facing an equally old and dilapidated chalkboard. Cold pots of coffee and tea littered the table along with forgotten, half-eaten sandwiches. They had been at it for hours without making any real progress. Harry had finally decided to chuck everything and start from scratch.

While Harry waited for an answer, he stared blankly at the early morning light streaming in through the old leaded glass windows. The crimson glow that radiated around the room did nothing to perk up the exhausted Aurors. “Red sky at night, wizards will delight. Red sky in the morning, witches will give warning,” he absently thought to himself while he waited for a response. I certainly hope that’s not prophetic.

“The victims were all witches,” Ron’s muffled voice offered. He was laying face down in his arms. Harry was actually surprised that Ron was still awake.

A piece of chalk rose from the ledge of the chalk-board and began to noisily scratch out Ron’s response. The clicking sound against the board echoed faintly against the unadorned grey walls of the briefing room.

“They were all from Hogwarts,” Matilda Dillon managed to say around a deep yawn. Matilda was a fifteen-year fixture of the department. She was reliable and diligent in her way, but Harry sometimes questioned how much was really registering behind those deep-set ice-blue eyes. The chalk continued to chip and screech against the board, as clueless as the occupants of the room.

“Weren’t they all Ravenclaws as well? Chester Adams asked, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

Harry sighed in frustration. This was not the kind of brainstorming session he had been hoping for. The bloody Daily Prophet knows as much as we do, maybe even more. “That’s what the school records indicated,” he said in a flat, unemotional tone. The chalk-board continued its relentless clicking.

“The victims were all brutally killed and disfigured, especially around the face,” chirped Bobbi Jenkins, a perky little blond-haired witch, who looked like she’d had a full night’s sleep instead of having been up all night.

The chalkboard scratched out her answer. This is bloody pointless. We’re not making any headway. Harry’s mounting frustration was starting to get the best of him, not to mention the screeching of the chalk was wearing on his already frayed nerves.

“Let’s not be fergettin’ the effing white rose t’at turns up at every murder,” Seamus Finnigan offered in his thick Irish brogue. Seamus always seemed to get the girls with that accent, but Harry struggled sometimes to figure out just exactly what he was saying.

“I’ve not found out anything that makes sense with regards to that yet,” Neville offered glumly. “About all I’ve been able to come up with is that white roses symbolize purity, and are often used in weddings.” Neville, like Ron was a volunteer Auror. Ron was part owner of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes with his brother George. Neville was the Herbology Professor at Hogwarts. Both wanted to continue to work with Harry and give back to the Wizarding community in some meaningful way.

“If you don’t mind, Neville, I think I’ll go outside the group and ask Hermione to research that,” Harry interjected. “An impossibly obscure puzzle will make her day.”

Neville nodded in relief.

“Better than flowers and chocolates,” Ron mumbled. Harry smirked at that.

“Anybody have anything else to add?” Harry looked around the room, and saw all his Aurors hang their heads dejectedly. “All right then, I want to go over the case files of all four murders again,” he said, ignoring their frustrated groans. “Don’t overlook any detail. We’ve got to find some way to identify this killer and…” Harry noticed his secretary, Mavis MacDonald, nervously waving her hand to get his attention. “Just a moment,” he said to the group, motioning for her to come forward.

The frumpy middle-aged witch scurried to the front of the room carrying a wrinkled piece of parchment, which she thrust into his hand as soon as she reached him. “This just come for you Mr. Potter, sir,” she wheezed, trying to catch her breath. Harry realized she must have run all the way from her desk in the secretarial pool two floors above. “There’s been another murder,” she whispered ominously.

“Thank you, Mavis.” Harry’s stomach started to roil at the thought of another unfortunate victim. He scanned the message from one of his Aurors on the scene, surprise etched on his chiselled features.

He turned to the Aurors gathered in the briefing room, all of who were watching him expectantly. “All right everyone,” he said with a steely determination, “as you probably heard, there’s been another murder. Let’s get out there and do our jobs. I want this S.O.B. caught.”

“Who was the victim, Harry?” Neville asked.

“Michael Corner.”

“Well, one thing new to add to the list, isn’t there? It seems the killer is no longer content with just killing witches,” Ron said has he shoved himself up from the table to head to the Apparition room.

Harry shook his head at that as Ron walked by, and knowing that doesn’t make it any clearer as to who the killer could be either, he thought bitterly as he followed Ron out the door.

**********

Harry ran his hand through his still mostly jet black hair. While his team of Aurors was combing the crime scene, he’d been trying diligently to keep the reporters and onlookers at bay. Not an easy feat when the pack of pesky paparazzi and reporters were led by none other than Rita Skeeter. She’d been having a field day ripping the Ministry of Magic, the Aurors, and Harry for their failure to catch the serial killer.

The professional gossip-monger had been a thorn in Harry’s side seemingly forever. Her reporting of the Triwizard Tournament, Voldemort’s fall, Harry’s graduation from the Auror training program, his engagement and marriage to Ginny, and his being made Head Auror had all been full of interesting facts, most of which had been blatantly made up. Her coverage of the murders had likewise been pure speculation, and did nothing but increase the fear and anxiety among the Wizarding population. As if trying to catch a serial killer wasn’t nerve-wracking enough, having to do damage control after one of her articles hit the paper was enough to make Harry re-think being the head of the department.

He stepped through the wards that kept the press at bay and walked towards a group of Aurors that were kneeling by the front walk. They appeared intent with something smeared on the walk near where they found Michael Corner’s body. He leaned over them to see what they were looking at. “What have you got?”

Seamus shifted to his left so Harry could see. Crudely scribbled onto the walk in dried, blackened blood were the letters “me.” The letters were barely legible and in lower case. Harry frowned as he considered what the letters could mean.

“Do you suppose he was confessing to the murders?” Matilda asked.

Ron laughed derisively. “Yeah right, Dillon! First he sliced off his nose, mutilated his eyes, and slit his throat. Then while dying from extreme blood loss and lack of air, confessed to the murders. Don’t be daft!”

Matilda bristled, clearly stung by the rebuke.

“Let’s not forget the bloody white rose in his hand either,” Seamus added.

Harry frowned as he stared fixedly at the gruesome letters. What in Merlin’s name was Corner trying to tell us? He wondered, baffled by the letters.

“Maybe he’s identified the killer,” Neville mused, still looking at the blood-smeared letters.

“Maybe,” Harry replied doubtfully, “but don’t you think he would have written the letters in capitals if he was trying to finger someone?”

Neville shrugged his shoulders, as uncertain as his boss about the victim’s intended message.

“Not to be impertinent,” Ron said

“That would be a first,” Matilda said sarcastically.

“Shut it Dillon,” Ron retorted, glaring at the younger witch. He turn his gaze back to Harry who frowning at him disapprovingly. “As I was about to say,” shooting a quick look to the disgruntled witch, “would a dying man really take the time to worry about grammar and whether or not he was writing in upper case or lower case?”

“Tough to imagine, isn’t it?” Harry said morosely. “One more thing to consider I guess. We’re not likely to solve it now, so why don’t you and Neville head home. I’ll stay until this lot finishes up here and we’ll regroup back at Headquarters after dinner.”

Harry watched as an exhausted Ron and Neville made their way past the security wards so they could Apparate home. He wished he was headed home as well, but duty demanded that he finish up here first.

**********

Harry sighed in contentment has Ginny massaged the knots out of his neck and shoulders. He hadn’t realized how tense they were until she’d started rubbing them.

The boys were out back playing Quidditch and Lily was over at Ron and Hermione’s playing with Rose. Ginny had a wonderful smelling steak-and-kidney pie baking, and her hands were definitely working an entirely different kind of magic on his sore shoulders and neck. She hadn’t asked yet, but he knew her curiosity was piqued regarding the latest murder victim. He suddenly tensed as he realized he was going to have to tell her that her former boyfriend had been killed.

“What’s the matter, love?” Ginny asked softly from behind.

Harry was always amazed at how she seemed to know what he was thinking. She always knew what was going on in his head. His astonishment must have registered on his face, because Ginny smiled warmly at him as she explained. “You’ve never been able to hide your feelings from me Harry; I know how to read your expressions and gestures. Besides, you went from relaxed to the tendons on your neck standing out in an instant.” She continued to rub his neck.

“Just thinking about the latest victim,” he said evasively.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He reached behind his head and grabbed her hands, then pulled her around to the front of the chair and onto his lap. She placed her arm around his neck as he wrapped his arms around her. “The killer’s latest victim is someone you know.” Harry fidgeted with a fold on her shirt as he tried in vain to figure a way to break the news to her gently. “Ginny, I…it was Michael Corner.” He couldn’t bring himself to look at her as he said the name.

“He was killed just outside his front door. The killer used some kind of cutting or slicing spell on him. His eyes were slashed, his nose cut off, and his throat sliced open. It was pretty brutal looking.”

He finally looked up as Ginny leaned her forehead into his, her warm chocolate eyes filled with tears. “Are you sure it’s the same killer? I mean…all the other victims were witches.” Despite her tears, Ginny’s voice remained steady and calm.

“He was holding a white rose when he was found, so we are assuming for the moment that this is the same killer.” Harry used the pad of his thumb to wipe a few stray tear tracks from her cheeks. “Are you okay? I mean…I know he was your first boyfriend and all.”

She smiled at his concern. “I’m okay, Harry. I haven’t seen or spoken to Michael in years. I’m sad because of the way he died and because he had been a friend, that’s all. I dated him a life time ago, and once you and I got together, well…I sort of forgot all about Michael - and Dean too, for that matter.” She kissed his cheek tenderly in a gesture of reassurance.

“I guess I know what you mean,” he said, somewhat relieved, “that’s kind of how my thoughts ran when I found out about Cho.”

“Well, you did better than me,” Ginny admitted reluctantly, “because I had to stomp down a wave jealousy when I first heard about Cho.”

Harry looked at her questioningly. She smirked at him, and he saw the fiery determination in her eyes he loved so much. “Oh, I got my priorities straight,” she continued, “but my first reaction wasn’t very charitable. I don’t suppose the bastard left any clues behind this time?”

Harry let out a slow breath. “The killer…no, but Corner managed to scratch out two letters in blood before he died.” Ginny looked at him expectantly. “He wrote ‘me’ in lower case. I’ve been wracking my brain over it, but I can’t seem to come up with any ideas of what he was trying to say.”

“Could it have been the killer’s initials?”

“Nah, I thought of that, but the letters were in lower case. Wouldn’t he have put them in upper case if he were trying to give us a name?”

“Not necessarily,” Ginny replied thoughtfully. “I remember when I was going out with Michael; he used to send me notes scribbled out on parchment all the time. Everything was always in lower case, including my name. I always thought it was a bit annoying really.” She was surprised when she looked back at Harry to see the incredulity plastered on his face.

A sudden flare of green flame from the fireplace caused them both to startle as Ron’s face came into view. “Sorry to cut dinner short, Harry, but George just Flooed me. The security alarms for the shop’s warehouse went off. He’s asked us to meet him there to take a look. I’ve already sent a Patronus to Seamus asking for backup. I’ll meet you in front of the shop.

Ginny hopped off Harry’s lap and helped him get his Auror’s gear together. Harry pulled her close and gave her a quick but intense kiss before he stepped to the fireplace, grabbed a hand full of Floo powder from the copper bucket hanging on an iron hook on the side and threw it into the fireplace, clearly calling out “Weaselys’ Wizard Wheezes.” He disappeared in a flash of green flame.

Ginny sat back down in the chair. It was still warm from where Harry had been sitting in it. She knew Harry could take care of himself, but she couldn’t shake the feeling of dread she felt. “Be safe, Harry, and come home to me,” she whispered.

**********

An unfocused, blurry form stalked carefully through the dark aisle of the Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes warehouse, hoping to find the rare components needed to produce the blurring cream that hid the killer’s identity so effectively. A small dusty window filtered the only light that seeped into the building.

The killer had discovered the security wards, but was unable to circumvent them. It would only be a matter of time until someone came to see what set off the alarm. No matter, the killer thought spitefully. If Weasley shows up, he can be the next to feel my revenge.

No sooner than the killer had finished the thought than the distinct sound of someone Apparating disturbed the quiet of the formerly empty warehouse. The sound of muted voices quickly followed. The muffled whispering was like ripples on the surface of a pond, pin-pointing the location of the new arrivals to the killer.

Like a ghostly apparition, the killer silently glided to an open wooden stairway that led to an upper level. On cat’s feet, the killer climbed to the top of the stairs to get a better vantage point of the room. Two redheads, one tall and thin, the other shorter and stockier were cautiously searching the far end of the room. So, both Ron and George Weasley showed up, the killer observed, smiling viciously. Even better.

The killer looked past the brothers to the enormous floor-to-ceiling shelves that were loaded with heavy looking crates. Perfect! The killer’s wand appeared from under the Disillusionment cloak. “Reducto!” the killer shouted. A jet of orange light streaked towards the heavily loaded shelves and smashed the support struts causing the shelves and crates to topple over and fall onto the unsuspecting brothers.

The killer ran down the stairs and over to the pile of rubble. Both George and Ron were buried under a mountain of debris; their faces horribly bruised and bleeding freely from numerous gashes and cuts. The killer laughed manically, as two withered white roses were pulled from under the Disillusionment cloak and dropped by each wizard. Seeing the Weasley brothers laboured breathing and grey pallor, the killer was sufficiently convinced that neither had long to live. However, the ruckus could have triggered more alarms. It was time to leave. The killer expressed a moment’s disappointment at not getting the needed supplies, but killing another two tormentors so easily more than made up for the inconvenience. The killer quickly made their way outside and Disapparated away.

**********

Off to the right of where Ron lay buried under the rubble, a disembodied hand twitched, then slowly started to move, before becoming still again. The killer had miscounted. There should have been three roses.

Back to index


Chapter 3: Chapter 3 - “…It Will Have No Choice But To Wither And Die.”

Author's Notes: AN: As many of you know by now, over a year ago, my friend and fellow author, St. Margarets, submitted a story, “Fourteen Ways of Looking at a Flower.” The story was a series of vignettes that involved characters from the Harry Potter series and that in some way featured flowers. One of those vignettes dealt with a murderer who left a single white rose at the scene of the crime. Long story short, I couldn’t talk her into expanding the piece into a longer story. Instead, she challenged me to do it. This is my take on St. Margaret’s vignette – The White Rose. I would be remiss if I didn’t thank her for a great story idea, and for the much appreciated advice and encouragement she’s given as I’ve worked on this project. Thanks St. M!

Now I need to thank two very talented individuals who have been very good to me. When I first started posting to SIYE, one of the validators (I think maybe it was Sovran) advised me to consider using a beta. I had been reluctant, even resistant up to that point to consider it. Long story short – it’s been one of the best pieces of writing advice I have gotten. I started working with Spenser Hemmingway a couple of years ago. I’ve learned a lot working with him and I really value his opinion. I consider him a good mentor and friend. A little over a year or so ago, I was fortunate to also start working with cwarbeck. Like SH, she has become a valued mentor and friend. She brings a different yet just as important perspective to the table. My writing, and more importantly for the readers, the finished product is so much better because of them. Thank you so much Eric and Cel for the time and effort you put in on my behalf. I truly appreciate it!

And now for all those who have followed this story. I apologize for the long duration between chapters. My only excuse is that my life has been busy and full, with little to no time to indulge my love for writing. I hope you all enjoy this. Chapter four is well underway, so with any luck, I’ll have it up soon.


The White Rose

by M_And



“…It Will Have No Choice But To Wither And Die.”

(Othello Act 5, Scene 2 by William Shakespeare)



“Why is it that hospitals always have to be the most depressing places?” Ginny Potter asked as she sat looking around the dimly lit, austere waiting room at St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. “A new coat of paint in a cheerier colour, some potted plants and maybe a picture or two would cheer this place right up. It would do wonders for the spirits of the poor families and loved ones who have to bide their time here.”

Hermione Weasley smiled at her sister-in-law and best friend. She knew that Ginny was only prattling on so has to take Angelina’s mind off her husband George. It must have helped some as she saw her other sister-in-law stop worrying long enough to look around and consider Ginny’s remark.

Ron, George and Ginny’s husband Harry had been brought to the hospital the night before following their near fatal encounter with the serial killer at George’s warehouse. They were hustled without ceremony to the ground floor, to the Artefact Accidents Ward, though, in truth, their injuries were no accident. The two withered white roses found near Ron and George gave mute testament to that.

Now with the first hints of dawn peeking through the grimy windows, the three wives were still waiting for some word as to the condition of their husbands. All three wizards had been brought in with severe head wounds and having lost an astonishing amount of blood. If Neville and Seamus hadn’t found them as quickly as they did…well, best not to tread down that path, Hermione thought ominously.

Angelina stopped her appraisal of the waiting room, and looked back towards Ginny. Her dark features were strained, and Hermione noted that the older witch’s coarse sable hair seemed to be touched with a bit more gray than before. It was an optical illusion of course. The rising sun streaming through the dirty windows merely made it easier to see. Angelina had often remarked that living with George was going to make her old before her time. The evening that had just passed seemed to be proof that it was happening.

“How do you do it, Ginny?” Angelina’s voice was hoarse as she tried to speak.

“Do what?” Ginny replied looking up from where she had been watching in morbid fascination as a pair of cock roaches battled it out over some barely visible morsel of food.

“How do you stand the unbearable waiting?” the older witch clarified. “I mean…I’ve been here with George any number of times. We’re practically on a first name basis with some the Healers on several of the floors, but it was never serious, you know? Just invention mishaps.” Angelina looked at Ginny intently. “But you’ve been here with Harry a lot too, and it’s almost always serious. How do you stand it?” Her long slender hands were clasped together so tightly that her dark skin turned almost white. “This is the first time I’ve ever really been worried about George, and it’s turning me into a nervous wreck; but you’ve had to sit in this Merlin-forsaken waiting room countless times! Why do you put up with it? Has it never occurred to you that you could ask Harry to quit the Aurors?”

Ginny smiled patiently at her sister-in-law. The suggestion was hardly a new one. “Let me ask you a question. Would you ask George to quit the joke shop? You don’t need the money anymore, so why put up with all the injuries he goes through from developing and testing products?”

“Because that joke shop is who he is. He’d never be happy doing anything else.”

“Exactly!” Ginny said in response.

Hermione silently applauded the younger witch’s question. Nobody got Harry like Ginny did. Ever since they were kids, Ginny always seemed to be able to understand and reach Harry in ways that she and Ron never could. Their personalities truly complimented each other and brought out the best in one another.

“Besides,” Ginny continued, “Harry’s nobility and bravery are part of what attracts me to him. I don’t want him to change. If that means I have to learn to endure moments like these, well…then I accept that. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had loads of anxious moments because of Harry, but I just have to accept it as part of what comes with being in love with him.”

“You’ve got the patience of a saint,” Angelina said admiringly, “and I wish I had your strength of will.”

Hermione watched as Ginny blushed at the compliment, and looked away. She knew how Ginny persevered in moments like these. Only four other people besides Ginny knew the full story of Harry’s walk into the forest all those years ago when he went to sacrifice himself to Voldemort. Only Ron, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and Hermione herself, knew that Harry had died when Voldemort’s Killing Curse struck him in the chest. Only they knew about his visitation from Dumbledore at the otherworldly King’s Cross. And only they knew that in addition to finishing off Voldemort, Harry had come back to be with Ginny. It was an extraordinary act of love that forever changed the both of them. Yes, Hermione knew how Ginny persevered in moments like these. Harry had come back from the dead for her, and she would never deny him anything that made him happy.

“How much longer before we hear something?” Angelina sighed, as she bent over and laid her head on her knees.

As if in answer to her question, Hermione saw a tall lanky man with dark limp hair walking towards them. She surmised he must be a Healer from the lime green robes he was wearing. His smile was genuine as he greeted Hermione and her sisters-in-law.

“My name est ‘ealer Triageneau,” he said, in a nasally voice with an accent that clearly denoted him as being French. “My apologies for not getting out ‘ere sooner, but eet was tooch an go t’ere pour a while. De ‘ead wounds were most serious, an de blood loss was…” He paused and looked between Hermione and Angelina, both of whom looked a little ill. “…but I fear I am distressing vous, non?

Ginny had to grab both Hermione and Angelina by the arms to hold them up as their knees seemed to want to act like they’d been hit with a Jelly-Legs Jinx. She eased them down and began to fan them with an old copy of Witch Weekly. “It’s alright Healer Triageneau,” Ginny said, “It’s been a bit of a long night for all of us. Are our husbands going to be alright?”

Oui! Oui!” the Healer assured her. “They weel be jus’ fine Madame…?”

“Potter,” Ginny answered. “My name is Ginny Potter, I’m Harry’s wife. This is Hermione Weasley,” she said as she pointed to her best friend, “and Angelina Weasley,” she indicated as she placed a comforting hand on her other sister-in-law’s shoulder. The Healer greeted each of them in turn and made a great fuss at having such famous ladies to call on.

“Your ‘usbands will all be fine. They are resting now. We treated their fractures, and geeven all of them blood restoring potions. They will sleep pour most de day. When they awaken, then you may go and see them, non?

“Of course Healer Triageneau,” Hermione said a bit breathlessly. “Thank you so much for telling us how they’re doing. It’s a relief to know that they’re going to be okay.”

“Eet is no problem Madame Weasley. I weel try to ‘ave someone keep you updated on their progress. In the mean time, if you need anything, please jus’ ask pour moi.” With that the Healer turned on his heel and strode out of the waiting area.

“Well,” Ginny said as she rose a little stiffly from where she had been sitting and comforting Angelina, “I think I’ll head home for a bit and spell Mum. The kids will want to be hearing some news by now, and I’m sure Mum’s about to lose her Knut wondering what’s going on.”

Hermione smiled at her sister-in-law in gratitude. The kids would be relatively easy to explain things to, but Mrs. Weasley was another matter all together. Time and circumstances had not eased the Weasley Clan matriarch’s propensity to worry one iota. If anything, age had made it worse. Of the three of them, Ginny was best suited to deal with her mother’s anxiety.

“You okay to Apparate home?” Hermione asked.

“Probably not,” Ginny responded. “I’m a bit knackered to tell the truth. I thought I would just Floo to the Harpie’s pitch and walk from there. Gwenog said I could always use their Floo whenever I needed it.”

“You’d think you’d have the house hooked up to the Floo network,” Angelina groused.

“Harry takes security very seriously,” Ginny said, “though, to tell the truth, I think he’s more concerned about the bloody reporters figuring out where we live than some nutter wanting to do him in.”

“Well, just make sure you don’t run into any homicidal psychopaths walking home,” Hermione said pointedly.

“I’ll be fine Hermione. It’s a short walk home in open country. Not much way for anyone to sneak up on me, is there?”

“All the same, you be careful,” Hermione warned.

“Duly noted, Mum,” Ginny said sarcastically. With that, Hermione watched as she left to go find the fireplace in the main lobby that was available for visitors to use.


A short ways down the hall, a storage cupboard door quietly closed after watching Ginny Potter walk by. “So, Harry Potter was with the Weasleys at the warehouse,” the killer muttered. I should have suspected as much I suppose, and all three survived, rotten luck that. No matter, I’ll have to finish them off another time. Right now, I think it’s time to deliver another rose.” With a barely audible POP! The killer Disapparated from the closet.


Ginny walked out of the tunnel of the Holyhead Harpies pitch into the overcast skies of Western Wales. The blustery wind off the Irish Sea whipped through her hair and sent a chill down her spine. She walked a little way up the path and turned to admire the greyish-blue sheen of the pitch’s stone construction. The builders of the pitch used stone from the same quarry as the inner Bluestone Circle at Stonehenge. She always felt like this place had a magical quality to it, and often wondered if the stones were the reason why.

She drew her wand from her back pocket as a precaution, and started on down the path towards home. Home was a sturdy two-story stone house that was about fourteen hundred meters west of Llaingoch, near Holyhead Mountain, about a fifteen minute walk downhill to the sea. Without so much as a bush to obscure her view, Ginny took in the awesome beauty of the Irish Sea as it pounded the shore around the South Stack Lighthouse.

Harry had secretly bought the land, and had the house built while Ginny was still finishing school and Harry was in the Auror Training Program. On the night of their wedding, he brought her here for their honeymoon. It had been the perfect home for them ever since. The lonely, storm-blasted Welsh coast rarely attracted the attention of Muggles or magical folk, yet it was conveniently close to the pitch. The terrain was rugged and storm-blasted, nothing like the lush fertile earth that surrounded the Burrow, her childhood home; but the roaring of the sea and the howling wind always seemed to fire her blood. She was a bit like her brother Bill in that respect. The time she had stayed with Bill and Fleur at Shell Cottage during the war had put the sights, sounds and smells of the sea in her being, and she was profoundly thankful that Harry shared that love as well.

As Ginny hiked down the path she did her best to keep her eyes sharp and her wits about her. She could almost hear old Mad-Eye Moody barking out, “Constant Vigilance!” It was a challenging task. Despite the calm she had displayed for Angelina’s benefit, her nerves were frayed. Last night was the closest she had come to losing Harry since the Battle for Hogwarts. She’d had nightmares for weeks after the end of the war. Each horrible dream featured a dead Harry in Hagrid’s arms or at Tom Riddle’s feet. The memories and emotions of that night came crashing back to her in the wee hours of the night as she waited for some word of Harry’s condition. She dreaded going to sleep tonight, knowing that the nightmares would be waiting for her and there would be no Harry to keep them at bay.

She sighed in resignation, and tried to clear her mind of the morose thoughts so she could focus on paying attention. She brushed absently at a flying insect that kept buzzing her hair. The pesky fly was bound and determined to land on her head. “Find someplace else to land, you barmy fly!” she grumbled, attempting to shoo it away. The fly seemed to take the hint, and Ginny continued on down the path towards home. She soon forgot about the fly, and didn’t feel it land on the back of her jumper.


The killer held on tight to the Disillusionment Cloak as the blustery wind threatened to rip it away and reveal the person underneath it. While Ginny Potter had used the Floo-network to get to the Harpies’ pitch, the killer had quickly Disapparated from St. Mungo’s and arrived several minutes ahead of her; taking up a vantage point that would allow the killer to see the Potter hag as she left the pitch.

This was to be another of those moments that the killer had waited years for; a lifetime really. It was twenty-five years ago when Ginny Potter, then Ginny Weasley, dubbed Harry Potter’s little bunch of rule breakers, Dumbledore’s Army. The very name sent waves of loathing coursing through the killer. It was the DA, as they called themselves, which had disfigured the killer and thereby ruined a promising future. Nothing else mattered but the complete annihilation of the members of that most detested group.

The killer’s dark thoughts were interrupted by a flash of red hair leaving the tunnel of the Harpies pitch. Watching in frustration as the prey scanned the vicinity, and warily stepped onto the trail leading away from the pitch; the victim’s wariness would make the killer’s hastily hatched plan risky. Ginny Potter was known far and wide for her quick temper and even quicker wand, and an ill-conceived attack could end up with the killer in custody, or worse. No, a new plan was needed, one that relied on the element of surprise. Then the killer could strike with impunity, incapacitating the victim without the uncertainty of a pitched fight.

“First things first,” the killer whispered, “I need to discover where the reclusive Potters live.” An evil smile formed on the killer’s lips as they pulled out a garish purple capsule from the cloak’s inner lining. “How poetic that the downfall of the great Ginny Potter is going to come about with the help of her own clever oaf-of-a-brother.”

The somewhat large purple capsule was one of George Weasley’s latest creations, the Animagus for an Hour pill. The pills would allow the user to turn themselves into one of six predetermined animals for approximately one hour. It was based on the concept of the Canary Cremes. The killer swallowed the capsule with an audible gulp and instantly transformed into a lacewing fly.

The urge to go find an aphid and eat it nearly overtook the killer as they adjusted to the transformation. Only a determination honed by years of hatred focused the killer’s thoughts. The unassuming lacewingfly/killer darted off after the ginger-haired woman who was already several hundred meters down the trail.

After flying around Potter’s head a few times, the lacewingfly/killer landed softly on the back of her jumper, an unwanted passenger on the trip home. The fly could feel when they passed through the wards and protection charms. A large house appeared where there had been nothing before. The location flared in the tiny fly brain of the killer — the secret location of the Potters was a secret no more.


Ginny walked up the path that led to the front of her house. She loved the stone exterior. The large, substantial stones gave a feeling of security. Even the window sills were formed of cut stone. The roof tiles were made of a dark grey slate. The front of the house actually faced northwest, towards the Irish Sea. There was a small herb garden off to the side of the house where Ginny had planted the basic herbs for cooking and potions. Between Harry’s job and inheritance, and her job and the money she had made playing Quidditch professionally, they could have bought all the fresh herbs they needed; but Ginny enjoyed maintaining the little plot. The yard was devoid of trees. The high winds coming off the sea made growing them all but impossible, even with strengthening charms. The only other plants that were growing on the property were heather, and the tough, wiry scrub grass that grew naturally along the Welsh coast.

As Ginny approached the front porch, she breathed a sigh of relief. The walk down from the pitch had been uneventful, and she hadn’t met a soul along the way. She was still unaware of the unwanted passenger on her dark green jumper.

Opening the solid oak front door, she stepped through into the foyer and closed the door behind her. The house was quiet, which, given the early hour, was not surprising. James, Albus, and Lilly had all inherited their mother’s love of sleeping in. She walked past the parlour and the den and entered the kitchen. Her mother was just putting a batch of muffins into the oven.

“Hi Mum,” Ginny said in greeting.

“Oh, Ginny dear!” her mother said, bustling over to give her warm hug. “Oh, you look so tired, dear,” she fussed, as she gently prodded her daughter to a chair at the big, dark stained walnut table. “You don’t look like you got any sleep last night dear.”

“I can never get comfortable enough in those waiting rooms to do more than doze.” She looked critically at her mother. “It doesn’t look like you slept much either Mum,” Ginny chided.

“Yes…well…I’ve never been able to sleep a wink when something is wrong with one of my children. Now, let me get you a nice cup of tea, with an extra dollop of honey while you tell me how the boys are doing. I’ll have fresh cinnamon muffins to go with that in a tic.” Her mother was a positive flurry of activity as she hurried around the kitchen.

Somethings never change, Ginny thought thankfully. “Harry, Ron, and George all doing better Mum,” she offered, trying to keep the weariness from her own voice. “The Healers have patched them up. They’re all still asleep though. I guess some of the potions made them drowsy.”

“That’s certainly understandable,” her mother said as she set the piping hot cup of tea in front of her daughter and took a seat next to her. “How are Hermione and Angelina doing?”

“All in all, not too bad, I’d say.” Ginny blew into the cup of tea to cool it down so she could take a sip. “Angelina was a little tense until we heard from the Healer, but I think she’s doing better now. Hermione seems to be coping okay”

“What about you, dear?” her mother asked knowingly. “How are you holding up?”

And now we get to it at last, Ginny thought. The argument was like an old nagging injury; it just never seemed to go away. Her mother had never approved of Harry joining the Aurors. In her mind, he’d given enough of himself, and nothing more should be expected of him. Besides, it was too dangerous for someone who had a family. Her mother had directed her formidable temper at Harry a number of times after James was born, but she’d met her match in stubbornness when it came to Harry. She started in again after Albus was born, and then really got testy about the subject after Lily’s birth. The none-too-subtle hints, in the form of biting comments, continued every time something would happen to Harry. She loved her mother dearly, but didn’t appreciate her tenacity on this subject.

“Mum, I’m fine. I’ve been through all this many times before. This isn’t the first time Harry’s been hurt, and it won’t be the last.” She tried hard to keep the frustration out of her voice, but doubted she had succeeded.

“Ginny dear,” Mrs. Weasley said with a hint of steel in her tone, “just because you’ve been through it before, doesn’t mean you should have to go through it again. For Merlin’s sake! You have more money than you know what to do with, why is it necessary for either of you to work at all?”

“Mum, we’ve been through this before,” Ginny said more patiently than she felt. “We work because we love what we do. We work as an example to our children, so that they don’t take anything for granted.”

“I would think you should consider spending more time raising your children, then you wouldn’t need to spend time sitting in the waiting room at St. Mungo’s!”

Her mother’s harsh remark cut Ginny to the quick. “I think this discussion is at an end, mother,” she said quietly but with a resolve that even her formidable mother took notice of. “Harry and I are good parents. Our children our happy, well adjusted, and well educated. We have provided for their every need.”

“What these children need is a father! That will be difficult to provide if he ends up dead like his parents, now won’t it!”

Ginny felt like she had been slapped. She just stared at her mother, gobsmacked.

The rows between her and her mother over the years were always over the same things: career choice, raising the children, and Harry’s job, but this was the first time she’d ever resorted to such an insensitive remark. The older witch seemed to sense she’d gone too far as well.

“Ginny…I’m sorry, dear. I…I shouldn’t have said that,” Mrs. Weasley said nervously. “It’s just that I’ve been concerned for Harry ever since…”

“Mum,” Ginny said in a hoarse whisper, “what Harry does, he does because he believes it is necessary. It’s who he is, and I support him fully. I will not ask him to change, and that’s final. Now, thank you for watching the kids for me, but I think it’s time for you to head back home now.”

Molly shook her head sadly in agreement, as she got up from the table. “The muffins will be done in a few minutes,” she offered. “Ginny, dear, I really am sorry.”

“I know, Mum, but I just need to be alone at the moment. Go ahead and go home. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything.”

“Alright, dear,” her mother said resignedly.

Ginny put her head down on the table and tried to regain her composure. She never saw the lacewing fly follow her mother out the front door.

Back to index



Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at http://www.siye.co.uk/siye/viewstory.php?sid=129018