Chapter 1 : One body.
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Tuesday, 19:56 pm
You watch over it, the corpse. Or her. It could be either. Which pronoun to use when someone dies has long been a confused discussion. No longer being, but still a person in a sense. It doesnít matter too much to you though. You have no reason to care about whether you use her, it, or nothing at all. She doesn't mean anything to you.
You made her like this, this mottled blue. You made her as marred as you, suffer as much as you. Yet she is dead and you are alive. Whether this is justice or not will remain a confused discussion, just like the matter of pronouns. Just like most things in your life.
The knife rests on the table. Coated in red, itís still as sharp as ever. Still as powerful as ever. People would be surprised to know that you wielded it, that you maimed someone with it. Youíre almost surprised by that revelation, even though you caused it to occur.
Youíre surprised by a lot of things these days. Each surprise makes you wonder if it's you who did it or if someone's infected your mind, that they're controlling you. You'll never figure it out. People never had much faith in your intellectual abilities. If they could see how you were putting them into practice just now they may change their minds.
The drip, drip, drip of her blood is the only sound present in the room other than your breathing. In, out, in, out. Each one so ragged, each one fading so quickly that you feel as if itís clutching onto every molecule, that it's clinging on for dear life.
It's as if youíre being asphyxiated.
Previous events almost have a habit of replaying themselves in your life. Murder, though, murder has never featured before. Itís a new thing for you. Though the question is how many murders will it take for it no longer to be viewed as a novelty in your life but a mere fixture.
Then it will fade into nothingness like your existence.
Taking one final look at her, you notice how the mottled blue has the odd blemish of crimson dotted in between it, almost like it's a piece of art. You used to like the idea of art until it happened. Everything stopped after it happened.
Even you stopped.
Wednesday, 8:45 am
Lily snaps the gloves on her hand back with a piercing smack and lets out a sigh. Another day and another body to analyse. Though that's what you got for working in St. Mungo's mortuary. Glancing over at the table where the body is covered in a black sheath, she casts an anti-germ spell on herself before wandering over to it.
The thing in front of her is no longer a human but a case, a piece in the puzzle, and sheís the one who puts it all together to figure out the cause of death. It's not harsh, it's mathematical almost, and if she wants to avoid any incidents of her body fluids contaminating the corpse, she has to carry on with referring to it in that way.
Giving a small nod to Peter, the other pathologist, she grabs the sheet of notes by the table and begins to leaf through them.
ĎIs there anything unusual about this case?í she asks him, the first words she's said all day. Chit chat has never been a strong point of pathologists whose humour is rather darker than most peopleís, so conversation is usually kept to the basics.
He gives her a pained grin, an obvious sign of a not so pleasant death, before sighing. ĎThe body was found in a Muggle part of London. It was only found because a witch happened to live next door, and found, well, it. The victim didnít live there beforehand. We know that for a certain. Itís most probably a murder then, especially given the state of the body. We havenít even been able to identify her yet because injuries leave little for us to work with.í
Lily winces at the last sentence. Even if corpses are puzzles waiting to be puzzled, sometimes the pieces could be so jumbled up that she almost didn't want to delve into their life and try and find out how they died. At times, she wishes the things she discovered could be drowned out and never thought of again. Those are always the things which float around at the top of her mind and never show signs of bobbing back down though.
ĎItís a good thing I didnít have time for breakfast,í she replies grimly. ĎShall I do the honours?í
He gives a small nod and she places her hands on the sheet, peeling it back gently. The soft red hair is curled around victim framing the top of her face, flickers of freckles cropping up in the small cracks gives Lily some small human things to hold onto while looking at this body.
Itís only when Lily continues to peel back the sheet that she sees things. She sees the way the hair has congealed into a clump, sticking to the victimís bare shoulders. She sees how it makes the puncture marks and faded bruises somewhat less noticeable than the ones on her neck which are fully exposed in the harsh light of the mortuary.
Even then it's only when she sees the face, as in really sees the face for everything that's there, that she sees her. Her hair, her freckles, her face shape, the remnants of her body.
She sees her cousin. She sees Rose Weasley, dead on a mortuary slab.
Author's Note: Whoo! I'm so excited to actually start writing this as I've had this idea float around for so long but it's only been there until now that is. What did you think of the first scene? Any ideas on who the person could be? What do you think Lily might do now she knows it's Rose?
This story should be about 5-6 chapters in total, though it will probably be mainly focused on Lily, I'm still not sure whether we'll return to the murderer or not. I would love your thoughts on this chapter too, so if you left a review that would be fab! ♥
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