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!
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The White Rose | ||||||
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Category: Alternate Universe, Post-DH/PM Characters:Harry/Ginny, Hermione Granger, Luna Lovegood, Ron Weasley Genres: Action/Adventure, Angst, Drama, General Warnings: Death, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Situations, Violence Rating: PG-13 Reviews: 47 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. Hitcount: Story Total: 9699; Chapter Total: 2320 Author's Notes: |
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C ould 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. |
| Reviews 47 |
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