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.
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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: 9700; Chapter Total: 1818 Author's Notes: |
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“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. |
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