((Trying this again... Rated M for some language and violence on Marc's part ))


Some call it a random killing… others, a crime of passion…Most just call it senseless murder. But for Marc, who was an opportunist, it was a chance to warm-up and get some new threads.

As he buttoned a pair of expensive onyx cufflinks into a crisp, freshly ironed cuff, Marc studied himself in the full length mirror in appreciation. “Hm…You do clean up well, dontcha boyo…” He said out loud, as he checked his jaw for any knicks or missed stubble. His voice, which boomed about the cavernous bathroom, caused the man to stir, moaning against the silk tie shoved in his mouth. “Sorry, mate, was talking to meself, not you. You look like shite…” Marc chuckled as he dusted off the arms of his new all black Armani suit.

This flippant comment seemed to infuriate the man. Or, perhaps, it was more because he was currently gagged with his own tie, laying in his own steaming hot bathwater with his wrists slowly bleeding out, and not able to do a damn thing about it. Whichever one it was, he was infuriated by it and begin to scream against the gag, somehow managing to splash about despite the paralysis potion coursing through his slowly draining veins. Marc shook his head and slowly walked a wide berth around the tub, avoiding the splashs of frothy pink water. Reaching the head of the tub, Marc crouched down slowly so as to not wrinkle his new slacks, his pale green eyes staring unblinkingly into the mans frantic, tear filled ones. “I got to hand it to you, mate, you got more fight in ya then I expected…”

He pulled the silk tie free and the man let out a string of cursewords that would have left the most hardened sailor blushing and scratching his head, since towards the end, he devolved into shouting whatever came to mind. Marc paid him little heed as he reached into the ratty knapsack on the floor and produced a small, emerald green vial. “Let me go! You can’t do this! I have friends in high places… They will come looking for you! I KNOW THE PRIME MINISTER PERSONALLY!” The veins in the mans neck stood out, somehow still having enough blood to pump through them, as he screamed himself red in the face. “Mate.. mate… shhh…” Marc shushed him as he grabbed the mans jaw and held it open with a vice-like grip, uncapping the vial with his other hand. “No body is going to stop me because they will have no clue that this was anything but self inflicted…”

He paused long enough to pour the liquid into the mans mouth and massage his neck to ensure he swallowed it before continuing “… See you thought the best way to handle that recent bad investment of yours was to fire your help… break up with your bird via text – she texted back by the way, very upset – and then go slumming downtown in your two thousand pound shoes and fancy sports car. And what amazes me most is that you didn’t even stop to think about the consequences of gettin’ so knackered that you flash a wad of cash and invite some random bloke to help you find a couple of ‘easy lays’ for what, I can only assume, you thought was going to be a ‘fun time’. You incredibly. Stupid. Prat…” Marc shook his head, tutting under his breath as he picked up the tie and begin to roll it neatly into a ball. “They’re downstairs by the way. Lovely girls, it was a shame that I.. I mean you had to go and kill them too. But you know how these murder suicides work... Successful bloke loses a bunch of money, dumps his girlfriend, kills a couple of hookers and then offs himself because he just can’t be troubled to live like a commoner. Shame really.”

It was either the potion finally taking affect or the fact that he couldn’t do anything to stop it, but the man finally stopped struggling and slipped into the water slowly, as if accepting its embrace. Marc patted him on the head “That’s right mate, let it go...” He soothed as he begin to pack up his sack, tossing the tie and vials into it “Well… Enjoy your soak… I let the ex know she could come pick up her stuff tomorrow, so, you know, if it is any consolation, someone will find you while you are still pretty enough for an open coffin.” Standing, he tossed the bag over his shoulder and gave his new friend one last smile “Well I am off to a business meeting… In, get this… Siberia…” He chuckled and shook his head “Of all places... bloody Siberia…” His words faded as he disappeared, leaving the man alone with his final thoughts.

Two days later, Marc was bidding farewell to Caspero Grummen and stepping into the verdant flames in the fireplace of his Moscow home and out of the empty fireplace in the dark yet still reeking of high-class Tyen Manor. He had only a moment to admire his lavish surroundings before a reed thin house elf, wearing what could be considered a rather smart bowtie made out of black construction paper, stepped out and coughed for his attention. “Mistress Kingstreet will see you now, sire…” Straightening his jacket, Marc nodded and followed the little gremlin down the hall, to a heavy black door whose foreboding simplicity seemed out of place in the opulent surroundings. It was quite obviously Theodora’s creation, which was evident by, if nothing else, her name stenciled perfectly in silver filigree on the dark wood. Marc raised his hand and gave a firm knock.

Ms Grumman was a fine landlady, and Theodora a find tenant.  They stayed out of each others business with the care and affection of two sisters, neither caring if the other lived or died in her own chambers so long as they wiped their feet and tidied their coats.  In the many months they had not seen much of each other at all and Theodora was beginning to feel a warm sort of fondness for Melanthe Grumman. 

Tyen Manor had more than enough space for Theodora to occupy two rooms, one of which Marc Donnelly was now standing outside of: the Siberian Branch Office of Theodora's Criminal At Large Operation. 

The heavy black wooden door opened slowly by magic and Theodora was satisfied to see that her murderer for hire had dressed properly for their meeting.  Theodora sat at a large black wooden desk, empty of nearly anything, with her hands folded and her blonde and grey hair twisted tightly behind her head. 

The office was a very large room, and had once been lavishly (garishly, unprofessionally) decorated.  The witch of the house had allowed Theodora to make changes and she had.  The large chamber was now cavernously empty but for a small administrative oasis in its exact center.  One desk. A floor lamp. Two chairs. And a short filing cabinet.  All sat upon an Persian rug. 

The small witch had seen better days, but she had also seen worse.  Marc Donnelly knew this.  He had been with her in Azkaban and that was how they'd come to be acquainted.  But it was their mutual arrangment in 2008 which allowed them to become business associates.

"Thank you for coming.  Please."  She gestured that he should come in, cross the twelve or so full paces it would take for him to arrive at the chair, and then to sit in it.  Between them was a small plate of cucumber sandwiches.

"Theatric" was not a word usually used to described Theodora Kingstreet's type of criminal. The word conjured up images of colorful, flamboyantly dressed cartoon villains who bragged carelessly of their crimes in never-ending monologues before being promptly captured by someone in technicolor tights and their mums bath towel. Theodora was anything but 'Theatric', she was cold, ruthless, cunning, brief and above all, efficient. She didn't brag about her crimes because to her they were all business and most certainly nothing illegal, at least, nothing she couldn't iron out with a couple sheets of parchment and a good stamp. The dirty work is what she hired Marc for.

What she was, however, was 'thematically appropriate'. Take her door for instance. It crept open at an agonizingly slow pace that ramped up the tension[1] until it clunked into place to reveal a vast, dimly lit room that seemed to stretch on for miles into the shadows, furnished only by a small oasis of office furniture. Other villains might have gone for something more macabre, like tortured victims hanging from the ceilings, strange body parts in unmarked jars or at least a few good drippy candles, but Theo opted for office furniture. The effect, however, was somehow terrifying. Its barren simplicity left the hairs on Marc's arm standing at attention, as though he were about to walk into the waiting room of Hell itself.

Kingstreet herself didn't look much different then the day he first saw her, nearly a decade ago. He remembered watching the new prisoners being escorted in chains into Azkaban, taking bets on which ones would succumb to insanity first. Unlike the others, who struggled or wailed or proclaimed their innocence by virtue of money, the diminutive blond, with her impossibly impeccable bun, strode alongside the others with an air of, well, not rebelliousness as much as 'Purpose'. Even her clothes, which were the same dingy, ratty striped robes as the rest of them, seemed to be crisper and cleaner. It was as if, by their proximity to her body alone, the robes had cleaned and ironed themselves in fear of being anything but pristine. If it weren't for the chains, one would have thought that she was the Warden herself, seeing off another batch of prisoners. It was not an easy image to forget.

"Thank you for coming.  Please."

Her command, as simple and unassuming as it was outwardly, was spoken in a voice as cold and hard as steel, sharpened to a razor edge. It compelled him to obey and he wordlessly approached the desk, sat down and picked up a cucumber sandwich, despite the fact he hated cucumbers. "Ma'am.." He said with a deference in his tone that he had not used with a woman since his own mother, "How may I be of service?"

1.	It should be noted that the door did not creak as it opened. Thematically appropriate or not, Kingstreet would never allow such a gross oversight as forgetting to oil the hinges.

Despite being dressed up like a proper entrepreneur, Theodora Kingstreet could still see the psychopathetic bloodlusting murderer she had come to rely on.  Even in those days in Azkaban there was little Marc Donnelly could do to conceal his true nature.  Perhaps it was just gross sentimentality, for Donnelly was also a capable disguiser and stealther, perhaps she just longed to see the bloodied hands under white gloves.

They worked so well together.  He had so much potential, already extremely talented.  She found herself becoming sentimental.  She blinked.  Once.

"Let's keep this professional, Donnelly," she told him, composing herself.  "No need to be overly affectionate.  I'm sure we're both quite fond of each other, but I'm afraid I have a rather dull request.  It is far lower a task than is becoming your expertise , but rest assured I am willing to comply with your base minimum rate no matter how easily you accomplish this errand, no matter how little effort you might require."

"I might have contracted with someone with less experience, more equal to this task, but you are simply the best.  I just hope you won't find insult in the work I'm going to offer."

She said it all still stock still and perfectly postured, hands folded, eyes on him unblinking.

Marc was honestly a bit touched[1]by her surprising sentimentality. It had taken at least the decade they were stuck behind bars for him to be able to discern Kingstreets 'moods'. Despite what most thought, she did possess emotions, he just thought she found expressing them to be inefficient and therefore useless.

His mother had been like that. She was a 'Spare the wand and spoil the child' sort of matriarch who had considered things such as 'love' and 'affection' secondary to discipline, if they need be expressed at all. But unlike Kingstreet, she had grown weak in Azkaban, letting herself fall ill to the insanity those dark, dank, depressing walls brought. In her last days she had told him that she loved him and Marc he nearly put her out of her misery then and there, ashamed of her weakness. Such a flaw did not exist in the woman before him.

The Sun Rises in the East, The Sky is Blue, Fire is Hot, and Kingstreet Will Never Change, these were the constants that Marc could count on.

" At this point, I would be happy with any job you have to offer..." Marc replied with a smirk as he raised his hand to his mouth to take a drag on his cigarette, only to find a cucumber sandwich there instead. Sighing, he put his hand down and begin to tap his foot instead. "... What do you have in mind? Murder? Larceny?... Arson?... Arson is always fun..."

1.	and not just in the head

"Donnelly stop, you sound desperate."

Theodora creased her brow.  She'd never admit such a thing even if it were true.  Appearances were paramount to making a good impression and maintaining a stellar reputation.  She'd done as such at the Ministry, why they were still trying to contact her even after all these years.  That is what punctuality and confidence got you - respect!

"There is a child."  By her tone she might have said 'roach' or 'smudge' or 'a copy of Slither Girls', so much did Theodora detest the larval stages of humankind. 

"I need you to steal it, and keep it secure.  Do not damage it, if possible, although that may be necessary later on." 

She spoke about the child as if it were an object, some beloved piece of furniture that would motivate some kind of behavior in its owner.  And that was a child's general purpose, they existed only by their ability to manipulate emotions of those more powerful around them, conning them into their care and feeding.  And it was just that manipulation Theodora as banking on.

"The child's endangerment will act as a motivator for a wayward employee.  The child is small, barely trained.  I don't imagine you'll have any trouble.  Again, I do apologize.  I can provide gloves if you require."

She tilted her head in a most sympathetic way.

Marc was nothing if not human, though some might disagree with that statement... if they were alive to do so. He was human though and that meant that when he was hungry, his stomach growled pitifully and when his stomach growled, he did what he could to nourish it before it made his appear... well... human. It was a matter of keeping up appearances and this was especially important to keep in mind in front of Kingstreet, who he always assumed absorbed her nutrients from bits of pencil shavings and paper dust. Which meant the cucumber sandwiches were either strictly for his consumption, her way of telling him that she realized hunger existed and that he might possess the need to eat, or were only for decoration, to mask the insanity that permeated the room with a strange bit of normalcy. He had a sneaking suspicion that it was the latter, but his stomach was on the verge of disrupting the conversation so he took his chances and quickly ate the rather squished bit of cucumber and bread, resisting the urge to make a face at the taste.

"I need you to steal it, and keep it secure.  Do not damage it, if possible, although that may be necessary later on." 

Marc nearly choked at this and was barely able to keep his composure as he swallowed the mouthful with difficulty. Kidnapping? Him? Did she mistake him for someone with restraint? Sure, she hinted at the possibility of 'later damage' but how much later? In his experience, kidnappings could last for months and the idea of spending months as a babysitter for somebodies shit-spewing spawn was not a welcome thought. He would be lucky if he could get by a week without removing a body part or two.

There was also the issue of whose kid this was. All she gave him was 'wayward employee' which could mean anyone who wore their tie crooked or didn't staple their papers with the staple at a perfect 45 degree angle. Or one that carelessly ate the cucumber sandwiches she had put out for decoration. Marc hadn't told her that he had procreated and for good reason. She dealt with children the same way that a mother dealt with finding a dirty magazine under her sons mattress. She regarded them with disgust, disposed of them promptly and then punished the perpetrator swiftly. The problem is, few walked away from her punishments unscathed... if at all.

"The child's endangerment will act as a motivator for a wayward employee.  The child is small, barely trained.  I don't imagine you'll have any trouble.  Again, I do apologize.  I can provide gloves if you require."

"No.. No gloves necessary... I like getting my hands dirty..." Marc maintained his cool quite admirably, or so he thought, as he held up his hands, palms out, to politely decline her gracious offer. Then he laced his fingers together and leaned forward, adding "Though I will need more information then that to go on. I am assuming there is a dossier?"

He may as well have asked if the sun would rise the next morning; of course there was a dossier.  She snapped her fingers and in the blink of an eye a pale yellow file folder was in her waiting hand.  She turned it round the right way for Donnelly to see and opened it in front of him on the desk. 

"It is called Matthews and it is currently at Hogwarts School.  There you can see her height, weight and other measurements should you wish to procure a container - I'll leave the details to your discretion.  I shan't presume to know your art.  She's more or less a muggleborn and just barely began with the wand."

Theodora flipped the page, still guiding Marc's eye with her thin index finger.

"Currently, the child is located at Hogwarts school.  Quite obviously she can't be taken there." Hogwarts was dreadfully adept at keeping track of the students.  Almost all accounted for each and every night.  "And I no longer have a representative on the inside.  We shall need to arrange for her to leave.  Otherwise we'll have to wait until the first week of December when they release them into Hogsmeade Village - even then I am informed the child would be too young to go unescorted."

She turned the page again.  This page had clipped to it a photo of a young wizard with dark hair and a young bit of stubble. 

"This is who will come for her.  The brother who owes me an explanation.  Madam Grumman was able to handle him easily, and so too I imagine you will be."

When Kingstreet opened the dossier to reveal a preteen with sly eyes and a mischievous smile, Marc was relieved to see it wasn't Ramona. Not that he wouldn't have done it if it were. If Kingstreet asked him to kidnap and probably kill his own child, he would. Children and loved ones were loose threads that needed to be cut before they unraveled the entire sweater. It wasn't infanticide, it was maintenance.

When she mentioned Hogwarts, Marc sat back and rubbed his chin pensively. The location certainly made it more difficult, but he had an idea of how to get in. Last time he had infiltrated the school, it was during the Memorial Day event and he was in disguise. Now, there wasn't any major events occurring that could give him an entrance, but there was some hubbub about an epidemic caused by the American students. With Kingstreets ability to forge any document so perfectly that it was actually more legit than the real ones, he could easily get her transferred to St. Mungos for observation. Of course, by 'St. Mungos', he meant 'some shack in the middle of nowhere' and 'observation' meant 'chained to a radiator', but those sort of details could be sorted out later.

"This is who will come for her.  The brother who owes me an explanation.  Madam Grumman was able to handle him easily, and so too I imagine you will be."

His plotting was distracted by the picture of a sullen looking youth, whose face bore the pained expression of someone who had seen quite a lot in his young life but without the gaunt and worn features of someone who had seen too much. Marc knew those looks well. It was almost too bad that Marc was going to have to be the one to push him over that edge. "And if he comes?" Marc said evenly, suddenly the perfect business man "... Do you want me to kill him?" He said this as naturally as one would comment on the weather.

Good.  Theodora had watched Marc Donnelly's reaction to each part of the breifing and he had not been found wanting in anyway.  A consummate professional.  Azkaban had certainly served its purpose with this one - he had become nothing but more effective and professional in the years since his release, attained a level of success in his field he might otherwise never have.

Very good, indeed.

Theodora sat back now, still stiffly, and steepled her fingers in front of her sharp little nose. 

"It won't come to that," she said with all confidence, as if she could very well have planned Devlin Matthew's actions for him, "He will come for her, but he will come for her penitently.  The message by that point shall be quite clear, I'm sure.  No.  I will have an additional loyalty document for him to sign, and for you to notarize.  You are a notary, are you not?"

Oh, goodness. By the look on his face, he wasn't.  She huffed.  "Fine.  We can arrange that easily enough.  You know, assassins really should be notaries.  Your professions are practically synonymous."

But onward.  "If he signs the documents then you may release them both.  I'm quite sure he will.  However, in the unlikely situation he opts out of our agreement, then you may kill him.  You are hereby so authorized."

"Now.  Getting the child out of Hogwarts.  What are you thinking?" 

She asked as if she were consulting an artist.  A man with a keener eye for design than perhaps she.  She? She was an administrator.  But a task such as what she was asking would require an artist's touch.

As she went over what was best described as an itinerary, Marc kept his face impassive and unreadable, only faltering slightly when she asked about him being a notary. He tried to compose himself before she noticed, but there was no escaping those hawk eyes peeking out from her spectacles. Luckily for him, she considered him valuable enough not to leap across the desk and impale him with a ruler. Thank god for small miracles.

As perfect as her plan was on paper, he had a feeling that she was underestimating the boy a bit. A lot actually. Perhaps, in her world, where logic prevailed and people calmly walked in and signed their lives away, this all seemed possible. But, Marc has seen and done too much in his life to believe it would be this easy. Even if the boy was intelligent and rational, Marc could see in his eyes a soul teetering on the edge. Kidnapping a loved one, especially if they were close, would probably push him over it. Marc sincerely doubted that the kid would just walk in calmly and accept his fate like a kicked puppy.

Perhaps that was a good thing, though. It meant Marc would have to kill him. So... you know, theres that.

"Now.  Getting the child out of Hogwarts.  What are you thinking?" 

"Well..." Marc was a bit surprised by her question. He had been raised a soldier and either took commands or worked solo, so being asked for input, much less asked to plan the whole event, was alien to him. It took him a few moments of contemplation before he had anything to say. "There was something in the paper, a couple days ago... about the Students from Salem being sick. Big mess, the healers had to go and do a bunch of tests..." Leaning forward, he laced his fingers together and continued, his voice low, almost conspiratorial "I'm thinking that if you make me some test results for miss Matthews, showing something... not wrong, but worrisome. We don't want them getting suspicious, after all... But if you can get me those results and some polyjuice, I can easily disguise myself and get a healer to go and retrieve her for me. Then, I pick her up, disguised as her brother, and..." He chuckled a bit here as he added, with air quotes "... Take her home."

The tiniest of smiles twitched at the corner of Theodora's mouth.  Donnelly was an artist; his paint subterfuge and sabotage, his canvas the backwards Wizarding society.  How gainfully he stepped along the lines of propriety, how nimbly he turned head over tea kettle the systems of well-being and alarm.  Theodora listened and approved.  She was so pleased to have contracted such an expert.

Her eyes narrowed.  She had head of the rumors surrounding Salem's Dragon Pox innoculation problems.  It sounded disgusting, but the perfect cover.

"The paperwork can be arranged.  St. Mungo's documents can be replicated with some effort, and acquiring Healer's credentials can't be too troublesome, granted so many poor Healers have them.  You'll have what you need owled to you first class."

Then she whipped out her wand and muttering a practiced spell, she summoned to her a fluttering rollodex that hovered in the air in front of her.  It's little pages flipped, rustled and fluttered and soon out popped a little black card with silver writing.


On the back was an address in Knockturn. 

"Here.  She's very good.  I've used her before."

Kingstreet seemed quite pleased with the idea, that is, she was if that nigh inperceptible twitch in the corner of her mouth was any indication. If he was correct, than it was also an indication of good things to come. He was just a hired wand to her now, but if he could prove himself with this mission, she might make him less of a lackey and more of a partner. One could hope for the future, right? It wasn't like he had a wife and kid to go home to anymore.

"The paperwork can be arranged.  St. Mungo's documents can be replicated with some effort, and acquiring Healer's credentials can't be too troublesome, granted so many poor Healers have them.  You'll have what you need owled to you first class."

"Sounds good..." He replied, managing to bite his tongue before he asked about the Polyjuice again. He knew well enough that she hadn't forgotten. She didn't forget anything and to suggest she had would be akin to signing his death warrant with an addendum that also granted her full use of his soul after the matter. Besides, he had barely managed to speak before she had her rolodex out and whirring.

"Here.  She's very good.  I've used her before."

Marc took the sleek black card, glanced at the name and slid it into his jacket pocket with a brief, sly smirk. "Brilliant" He said, patting his pocket "I look forward to it."

Leaning forward, hands on his knees, Marc pushed himself to his feet with a sigh "Well then, that decided, I should probably get to work. I will notify you the moment the dead is done." Turning, he started to leave when something caused him to pause at the doorway and look over his shoulder with a grin "Oh... and Madam... I'm not desperate... I'm excited"

And all was arranged.  It felt warm inside to have set the gears in motion.  She could feel her cucumber sandwiches being digested with newfound enthusiasm as her biles and humors worked over the vegetable and bread vigorously, reducing it to nothing.  And so satisfied she felt having eaten and how having begun an orchestration that would add more order to the world.  She would correct Jack Spade.

And Marc Donnelly would be the instrument.  Measured.  Sharp.  Deadly.  Clean-shaven.  That was what she enjoyed in an assassin.

She watched as he rose to standing and then as he left her spacious office.  But he paused at the door and said something.

To which she raised a thin blonde eyebrow.  "Don't be gross.  Good afternoon, Mr. Donnelly.  And happy felonies."