Chapter Text
The newest find marked the eleventh in a row someone had been discovered murdered after partaking of a four-course meal fit for a king. Eleven bodies in as many months. It was a pattern.
Hell, three had been, but no one had listened to Pansy when she'd pointed that out back in early April.
...But what did she know, as she was "just a secretary" in M.L.E., and not an Auror.
That was only because she hadn't been able to pass the written portion of the Auror test, because it's apparently of the utmost importance to be able to distinguish between a Bouncing Bulb and a Puffapod when capturing a curse-mad dark wizard.
Whatever.
Regardless of the nit-picky Ministry and its petty rules, the facts in the case were indisputable: every month so far this year, the culinary killer had struck, poisoning the sauces, coulis, gravies, and relishes of some of the finest meals the country had ever seen. The latest had contained Baneberry potion as the main ingredient; the purple tongue lolling from the victim's mouth had been the dead give-away.
Of course, the press was having a field day. They'd even dubbed the assassin with a deliciously clever nickname: 'The Cuisinier Killer'.
The Auror's office was still completely stumped. Officially, anyway.
After eavesdropping in on the details of the latest incident, Pansy's gut was telling her that her initial suspicion as to the identity of killer was dead-on, however, and that meant the name would have to be changed to the more gender-accurate version of Cuisinière. Because the murderer was obviously a woman. The lipstick mark she'd left on her dinner napkin this time around had been the dead giveaway.
What was also clear to her was that the killer was a Quidditch groupie, as she'd targeted the cream of that bachelor crop. Not that Pansy blamed the psycho hag-beast for wanting to off any of those hustlers, as they were a bunch of arrogant, narcissistic meatpies with egos the size of Ireland, but still, it seemed such a waste. She could think of at least a dozen different ways to make those men convulse that didn't involve hemotoxin.
Oh, and obviously, the killer had professional culinary training, most likely in France or with a French chef of some note, as evidenced by the quality of her béchamel. Pansy should know, having been raised with the finest chefs in Europe assigned to her mother's kitchen. No one in England could make a proper roux to save their lives…and apparently, all of the sauces prepared by the killer were to die for.
Literally.
Combined, those three suspicions quite nicely narrowed down the pool of potentials.
Now, all she had to do was get to that ex-git of hers to warn him that he could possibly be victim number twelve before the New Years was up! He had been, after all, seen in the papers in the company of Pansy's primary suspect…
Pansy sighed as she stared up at McLaggen's lion's head door-knocker, feeling that familiar sinking sensation in her belly.
Did she really have to do this?
There really was only one answer that counted this time, and she knew it: yes, she did have to face down Cormac McLaggen if she wanted to prove to Potter and the rest of M.L.E. that she had what it took to be an Auror, too.
Besides, this could be her chance for closure.
Two years ago, after a rather horrible fight between her and Cormac, her wounded pride had made her walk out, and for whatever reason, he'd let her go. Sheer stubbornness had kept her from running back to him in the interim, but in the secret vaults of her heart, she'd always wanted him to hunt her down and drag her kicking-and-screaming back into his arms, like a good, predictable Gryffindor was wont to do with his lady love.
Hell, Potter, Weasley, and even Longbottom had all quite publicly chased after their witches, after all…was it too much to ask McLaggen show her the same bold affection?
Now, though, it seemed as if she'd let too much time slip by, as he'd moved on. At least according to the Pink Column in the paper.
Perhaps it was time for her to do so as well.
Steeling her nerves, she raised her fist and knocked on the door, a Slytherin lie upon her tongue to explain away her presence upon his step.
"The game's afoot," she murmured under her breath, slipping her mask into place for the confrontation to come.