26th August, 1892 — Ministerial Memorial for the Dead

She hated everything about this – this was stupid, and performative, and something for the people who had no business being here, who just liked to feel involved – but Electra had spent most of the workday poring persistently over the old Prophet notices until her head was spinning with it. So, exhausted and hungry, she had stopped at the Three Broomsticks for supper, and afterwards had let herself drift into the Hogsmeade Memorial rooms with the rest of the throng.

She felt awake again now, in a room heavy with candlelight and hushed talking. Keeping herself to herself for a while, Electra contented herself with observing – until she spotted a likely someone to possess some information. There were some things that had been needling at her.

“What happened to the knife?” Electra demanded in a low tone, once she had appeared in front of them, all but accosting them in their tracks. Everything she’d heard about the other recent deaths had been odd, and yet inexplicable to her when it came to practical cause – a spell, a curse, something that left no trace. But Silas had cut himself up with a knife, and people had watched it happen, so surely the knife was the best lead they had. It had had to have come from somewhere. And where was it now? “Is someone looking into the knife?” (And how exactly was she going to get her hands on it, if no one else was?)

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Open to someone from Law Enforcement or with ~Ministry information / one of the witnesses to Silas Hunt’s death / a friend / another amateur sleuth!

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   Reuben Crouch

The whole ordeal was exhausting; Leo spent a lot of the time at the office as it was, the running joke that he truly only went home to shower, but even he had a limit of how much he wanted to see the ministry walls. He and Greyback had tossed ideas back and forth on what could be done a few days ago to protect the citizens, and while the plan seemed solid inside the office, a lot had to be done to make it come fruition - if it was something Minister Ross would even approve of. He was frustrated not having any answers and not having a damn clue on which of the suspects was capable of such madness.

Maybe that’s why he wound up at the memorial for all the victims. Leo stood near the back as he watched with bated interest of anyone suspicious; surely the murderer would come and look at their handiwork, or even send someone enchanted to relay information back to them. Nothing stood out of the ordinary so he stepped forward to hear some of the soft murmurs of the people, until a young woman accosted him about a knife.

Timoleon cocked an eyebrow at her. “Knife?” He parroted, his arms crossing over his chest as his mind whirled. Oh. The kid who had chopped himself into pieces had done it with a simple knife. “The knife isn’t any of your concern. It’s in the proper hands.” Or he thought it was. It was evidence after all. “Unless of course, it belongs to you.” Leo leaned forward as he cruelly accused her, meeting her gaze. Was she the enchanted woman he’d been looking for?

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   Electra Seabright

Predictably, the event had a strong DMLE turn-out. He’d clocked a few investigators and even an unspeakable milling about, clearly all with the same thought in mind. Suspects and murders usually acted on some itch, and witnessing the fallout helped prolong their satisfaction. Odds were high they’d find some clues here.

For his part, Cassian preferred to leave the detecting to the detectives. Subjective things were never his strong suit. His reason for being here was much more conspicuous, anyway: law enforcement badge and all, making a show of ministry force and muscle to reinforce that all who attended would be safe and sound. That the ministry had a handle on all of this. (Even if they were not, and they did not.)

He heard the lady’s question, loud enough to gather attention from anyone within earshot. Cassian averted a glance to her but kept his feet planted where they were, a dutiful surveyor of what was going on. There was nothing he could tell her anyway, out of respect to the family and to the investigation. Though he wasn’t anticipating to hear the familiar voice of Maxime – his boss – and despite himself he turned his head in their direction.

Knowing he’d been spotted, he simply inclined his head to Maxime in recognition, glanced to the lady, then turned back to the memorial. The Frenchman had no tact, in his humble opinion. Based on the way the lady asked, it seemed to him like she might have some acquaintance with this Silas Hunt fellow – now that’s worth asking about. But he didn’t jump in, and decided to just listen, debating the fine line where intervention would be helpful or required.

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   Electra Seabright

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Electra knew how to be well-behaved, knew very well how to keep her head down and not make waves. That was what she ought to be doing at this memorial. Half of Hogsmeade was here: if she raised her voice the way she wanted to, half the room would be looking at her. Still, she had to hope he was being sardonic and nonchalant, and not serious about his accusation. (Else what was he doing, just waiting for the murderer to march up and announce themselves?)

Her eyes widened in anger, catching the breath in her throat as she glanced sidelong, quickly, to see whether anyone had overheard his offensively offhand tone. There was a tall blond gentleman who seemed near enough to have noted it, but apparently he wasn’t interested enough to interject.

Fine. She took another step up to the first man herself, not about to let it go just like that. “Yes, the knife was mine, and I gave it to my friend and told him to kill himself,” Electra shot back, eyes narrowed and voice steely with sarcasm – and even then, there was more of a waver in it than she might have liked. Silas hadn’t just killed himself – he had butchered himself – and already this Law Enforcement man’s attitude was rubbing her the wrong way.

“Is that supposed to mean you don’t even know whose it was yet?” she added with a surge of feeling and a loud scoff, folding her arms across her chest and casting a dark look around the room as if to find other people to back her up on the next question she had, which was: then what exactly have you been doing all this time?

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Leo cocked an eyebrow at her as she seemed to assess him; so maybe that hadn’t been the best choice of words but the woman was being rather annoying about the knife, although he couldn't fathom why in the hell she thought he’d willingly give information to some stranger asking about the murder weapon. People like her were making his life difficult, and quite frankly, it pissed him off. His eyes followed hers as she seemed to eye Valenduris, who probably wouldn’t be having a much better time with her if their roles had been switched. He nodded in return before turning back to the woman.

A slight smirk spread across his lips. “Well I wouldn’t go confessing that easily, miss.” He breathed out before taking a moment to glance her over; if he kept goading her there was a possibility she’d drawn attention to them, which was something he wanted to avoid. More people, more opinions, more work for him in the end. Leo narrowed his eyes at her. “You knew him.” A statement, and he forced his lips into a frown - Timoleon hadn’t seen the body. He hadn’t wanted to, not after hearing the man had butchered himself. “Why don’t you tell me about him. Did you speak to him the day of?” There was doubt she’d offer anything interesting, but there was a sliver of chance she’d heard something interesting.

“Valenduris. Come take some notes while she speaks.” Leo didn’t bother to even cast a glance over his shoulder before he was actually frowning at her. “Ma’am, there are details I can’t discuss with the public.” Because no. They didn’t have a bloody idea what was causing this and it was eating away at him. Timoleon Maxime didn’t like to fail.

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Good fucking grief. Cassian breathed out evenly as he kept his eyes trained on the memorial proceedings up ahead, sensing from the Miss’ sarcastic retort that this was about to go sideways. Unfortunately she was not aware: besides being offensively French, Maxime also lacked even a modicum of human decency. Perhaps he should’ve figured a way to warn her, but drawing a slice across his neck over Maxime’s shoulder to tell her to cut it felt insensitive given, well. What happened.

Anyway, the thought came too late. Maxime latched on to her like a hawk snatches its field mouse for dinner. Stepping up to their small group at the sound of his name felt a bit like a rescue mission.

Cassian thumbed through a small notepad that had more diagrams of where to put hitwizards than any sentences. His writing and spelling were atrocious, and investigations were very much not his remit (and Maxime knew it, the bastard). Dutifully retrieving his pen, he glanced at the lady with a vaguely apologetic look. “Perhaps we might start with your name, Miss,” he added quietly. The answer as to how she knew the deceased, he supposed would come out of the woodwork on its own.

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Sarcasm bred sarcasm, it seemed – and if she could have punched that smirk off his face without getting arrested, she would have. As it was, Electra just gave the first man a caustic look of loathing and glanced at the other man he’d invited over.

He needed backup, did he? That almost made her smile. “Miss Electra Seabright,” she answered, trying not to snap at the other man, but still feeling sharp with her annoyance. “I work for the Daily Prophet,” she added stubbornly, in case this made them take her any more seriously. (She, er, neglected to mention that she worked for the Daily Prophet as a weather witch.)

But Orla McCrae had been a photographer for the paper and had died strangely, too. Owen Beauregard had been her friend as well. And now Silas with the knife. “He never would have killed himself,” she told them in a low tone, because Silas had been fine, he’d been sane, “but I’ll tell you about him, if you tell me what exactly you do know.” Did they know anything at all? Probably not. Electra supposed that if the Ministry did decide to arrest her on suspicion, she might well be the first they had. She hadn’t heard about any other progress they’d made in the meantime.

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He glanced up at Valenduris as he came over, giving him a nod before he turned his attention toward Ms. Seabright.

“The Daily Prophet, huh?” Leo tried to keep himself from sounding condescending but The Daily Prophet had been making his life infinitely more difficult lately, running stories without as much of a thought as to how much they were going to scare the public. Quite frankly, the newspaper had done nothing but piss him off with recent headlines and now he had actually had to watch his words if he didn’t want to wind up misquoted in a damn article. He tried his best to smile. “Must be a busy time for you.”

Leo grit his teeth together at her comment before shaking his head. “Ma’am, there’s not much we can tell other than it’s still an active investigation. Just know that the DMLE has everything under control and we are following up on all leads as they come in.” They had it under control. Under control in the sense that no one knew what the hell was going on, but at least the public didn’t know that. At least he and Greyback had formed some kind of plan in a feeble attempt to keep the public safe. “I can tell you the knife you’re looking for is being properly assessed to see if it was cursed in any way. We’re also looking at adding more boots on the ground to help ease any anxiety.”

Murdock’s idea actually, but it wasn’t an awful one. Plus they’d volleyed the idea of special tasks force wandering around but without knowing if it was going to come to fruition, he didn’t want The Daily Prophet to even get a whiff of it.

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The fact that she worked at the Daily fucking Prophet set off the same internal grimace in Cassian that it did Maxime, though both weathered on with plastered thoughtful looks while she spoke. Bluffing or not, this was honestly was the best thing she could have done to ensure she'd be listened to. Cass made note of her name, and let Maxime run his course of acting… sort of reassuring (a masterful feat).

“We’ve heard others say the same. Friends and family -” Tactfully omitting, and witnesses, giving her the grace to assume she might already know, “- no one felt he could do it himself. So this is being treated, as my colleague says, as very much an investigation into foul play.” A paltry comfort in the absence of answers, he knew. But perhaps it’d build a bridge between them - if Maxime was the one to worry about, maybe he’d be the one she’d trust.

“I’m sure you can relate, with the work you do,” he mused, “Leads could come from anywhere, just takes a different person looking at it. Perhaps we can start with how you knew Mister Silas Hunt. When you met, or perhaps when you saw him last.” His pen tapped thoughtfully on the notepad, feigning that he’d just remembered something too.

“Lots of odd notices coming out of the Prophet lately. Did that ever come up?”

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Perhaps it hadn’t been wise, the... manipulation of the truth, but Electra couldn’t bring herself to feel entirely bad about it, when it had gone so well at making them start talking. They had felt obliged to give her something. She was almost satisfied.

(At least they were treating it as foul play, and as more-than-likely linked to the other deaths. They must be related: the notices had linked the string of deaths together, if nothing else had.)

“Not with S– Mr. Hunt,” Electra shook her head, at the last question about whether anything had come up. “We went to Hogwarts together, but I haven’t – hadn’t seen him recently.” (Mostly because she had been avoiding him – and Queenie a little bit, too – but that wasn’t anything to do with the investigation.) “I kept in better touch with his younger sister. And he played piano, so he was always busy with events in the summer, for the season.” There, if they wanted to mill around and do nothing here, they ought to at least go interrogate some society people like that fraud of a woman who’d pretended to shed tears at Silas’ funeral.

“We’ve tried to trace the notices sent in, but no one at the Post Offices knows anything,” Electra added, though she suspected this was a lead they had already followed for themselves. “And – more boots on the ground, you said – does that mean you’ve ruled out any possibility that the murderer is coming from within the Ministry?” Sending more of the Ministry out on the ground was all well and good at preventing crime, if it weren’t someone with an insider’s knowledge committing them in the first place. She’d heard rumours about their official coroner.

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Valenduris was more of a people person than Timoleon could ever hope to be; maybe it was because he worried about feelings when all Leo wanted was justice, even if the means to getting it weren’t ideal. For being a selfish man (there was no denying that he would always look out for himself first), he prided himself in being a good assistant head – although it also boiled down that he wanted people to notice how well he was at his job.

Therefore, it came as no surprise that Valenduris was the one to ask questions about who Mr. Silas was. He didn’t give two shits about who this kid was or what he did for fun, nor what his family and friends thought about him. What he did care about was figuring out why Mr. Hunt felt the need to do what he did; what – or who – spurred him to do something so gruesome to himself.

Nodding, Leo raised his eyes to look at her but did everything in his power not to look at the blonde, knowing damn well he might look surprised at his next set of words. “It sounds like he was a very well liked man and will be missed. I’m very sorry for your loss, Miss Seabright.” He was going to choke on those words tonight; they sounded foreign coming out of his mouth.

Leo almost growled, but instead pressed his lips together to keep the snarl from showing – earlier in the week he would have bet every cent of his family’s money it was the Chopras, but after staking them out for the night he found they were boring. While he still had his reservations about them he wasn’t about to voice that the Daily fucking Prophet. Instead he managed to grit out “we’re confident in our teams, ma'am.” His back straightened. “I will be leading one of the teams myself and I have handpicked the finest Ministry men to work beside me.” Men he wouldn't trust with his life.

Nevermind the fact that Greyback hadn’t gone to Ross for that approval yet, but another detail the daft newspaper didn’t need. His boss would have his head if he gave away too much detail.

They hadn’t found any way to trace the notices to anyone either; it was as if they’d never been there. “Is there anyone at the Prophet you think might be protecting someone?”

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Cassian was more of the “people person” – less because he was a bleeding heart for peoples’ feelings and more because he could understand them, almost read them in subtle physical cues. The way Miss Seabright glanced down and to the side, for example, like she felt a bit bad about not speaking with Mister Hunt lately. Beyond this, she read to him as honest.

Maybe he should give Maxime more credit, though, with his curt condolences. Concealing his surprise with a slow, impassive blink, Cass wondered if there was something there – someone at the Prophet connected to some of the families that requested Hunt at events. He made a note to relay this to the investigators. They already advised his department on a shortlist of suspects to keep an eye on, and it would be interesting to determine if there were any other connections here. It seemed like a dark coincidence too, didn’t it, that most of the victims were halfblood or muggleborn killed by ‘ordinary’ events. There could be nothing to the pattern, but it unsettled him all the same.

“Rest assured that any suspect would be thoroughly investigated, regardless of their occupation or status,” he added sort–of-helpfully. “So protecting someone or – maybe anyone looking a bit jumpy or worse for wear lately? We can operate discretely, if there are any concerns about retaliation.”

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   Gus Lissington

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If the first man was offended by her comment about the Ministry, Electra was a little cowed when he countered it by asking about the Prophet. That was a fair enough question in itself. The second man – Valenduris, was it? – did well to sound a little reassuring. Electra almost trusted him.

But at the moment, she couldn’t very well trust anything, and her brows knitted as she considered their question seriously. Maybe it was best to help them, after all – surely they had more chance at apprehending the killer than she did. “I don’t know,” she said cautiously, not wanting anyone else in the room to overhear her airing her suspicions like this, when they were nothing more than general hunches... “But Mrs. McCrae, who was killed, was one of our photographers.” The one who’d fallen asleep in the park.

“I didn’t know her well, but she – lived in London, so she must have gone to Hogsmeade for something. Maybe she was investigating?” she mused. “I don’t know what happened to her camera. I don’t think she had it on her, in the end, but she would have taken it with her if she was working. Otherwise, she always kept herself to herself...” but she had died in the park as well, like Silas had, and there had been something almost murky about her. Electra had liked her well enough, but nevertheless. If anyone had been able to pass unnoticed in shadier circles, it might have been Orla McCrae. Thinking about those sorts of people... “There’s a fortune teller who sits in the Hogsmeade park most days, isn’t there?” she pointed out, tentative. “Have you tried talking to her, in case she saw anything?”

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Leo hummed quietly as he nodded at her. A Quidditch player, a Ministry man and a Daily Prophet photographer, and now a Pianist. From what he could tell, they didn’t have a single thread in common outside of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. They’d followed a string of even more unrelated deaths other than the oddness of not being able to track what – or really who – was causing them. It was almost suspicious that Miss Seabright knew two of the victims, and he narrowed his eyes at her. Coincidence?

“There are a lot of people right now who think they are sleuths, unfortunately.” He tossed a look to Valenduris from the corner of his eye because he of all people should understand the annoyance of having people stepping on his toes. (Never Leo though; he was above him in the food chain at the Ministry, so stepping on Cassian’s toes was impossible.) “And it’s a shame that Miss McCrae may have given her life for a wild goose chase.” His eyes did widen though, at the fortune teller; he’d forgotten all about her, but Leo wasn’t one to put much stock in people like her. They were useless, the lot of them.

“I believe someone is following up with her, Miss Seabright. Valenduris, make sure that’s happening.” Leo snapped his fingers at the man and nodded his head toward the notebook. Then he turned his attention back to the girl. “Have you ever talked to her? It seems you frequent the park to know these types of details.” He tried to keep the accusation out of his tone. More coincidences; she looked guiltier by the minute.

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Orla McCrae. Yes, Cassian remembered the case – it warranted an uptick in his men stationed around the park, people reasonably horrified for such a thing to have happened during the day without anyone’s notice. Only for another incident in the same place to happen not long after. Again Cassian found himself wondering if there was some sort of pattern to this all; their blood status or station, with most being workers. It seemed rather impolite to ask Miss Seabright such personal questions though, lest she worry unnecessarily that she may be a target herself. The implication that there was a connection with her place of work or network of friends was probably more than jarring in itself.

But then Maxime was talking again, and acting enough of an ass to distract Cass from his train of thought. What, am I stepping on his toes now?, he scoffed internally. Cass objected to playing investigator at nearly every occasion. Diverging truths that didn't need to be mutually exclusive, all the room for interpretation bothered him – even this short conversation had his mind scattered a dozen different directions, endless leads with no probable outcome. Still, he sympathized with Seabright’s desire to get to the bottom of what happened with her friend. He would do the same, were their positions reversed.

The man took a furtive note in his book on Orla McCrae – to see if her camera was found or if it may be missing from her person from the time of death, to follow up with the fortune teller, to see if they might track down any people she interacted with earlier in the day. Cass trusted that the investigators were already aware of these leads, but no harm done in passing the note to Scrimgeour just in case. Cass made an affirmative grunt to indicate he would follow Maxime’s order.

“Are you in living in Hogsmeade, Miss Seabright?” he tacked on his question, unable to shake this inkling he had about the woman's general livelihood and what could be at stake. Intuition from years of experience, or maybe just a gut feeling that did not agree at all with Maxime’s accusatory tone. “Perhaps with this all going on, you may consider walking with a friend or family while in town.”

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The first man was still making her bristle almost without trying, but between his narrowed eyes and the probing questions, Electra decided she probably ought not give him any more reason to haul her in for more formal questioning. “I live in Irvingly,” she answered them both, but shot a look of some insolence towards the one she disliked as she added, “– but like many women in the vicinity, I’ve been to the park more than once to promenade.”

Was that supposed to make her suspicious? Elly was getting a little worried about her earlier lie about being a reporter, though, because if they kept asking her things that might well fall apart, and probably only look worse. So she feigned a faint, weary sigh, searching for a way to worm herself out of the conversation sooner than later; she nodded at Valenduris almost obediently. “But I’ll be sure not to do that alone,” Electra agreed. “And I suppose I’ll leave the investigating to the proper department, if you have it all under control,” she said, unable to resist just a touch of snark, “I’m sure you’ll arrest someone soon.”

Whether that someone was likely to be the actual culprit, she wouldn’t dare say. “Good evening, gentlemen,” Electra said briskly, and hastened away back into the crowd before she got another lecture about their investigation procedures. It seemed to her that most all they were good at doing was talking.

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