He’d spent hours planning and enacting his plan, but then, if he was going to rise from the shadows, it had to be done with flare and style. He did nothing by halves. It had taken almost a week of visits to set the stage so to speak. Fortunately, the concert hall had been shut down for repairs only to run into funding problems. It had been the perfect venue for his first attempt at luring Alastor into a more determined game of cat and mouse.
From the street the concert hall was little more than a slowly deteriorating point of interest. The marquee was empty and the ticket booth collected dust and little else. He’d needed to lure his guest in, so the faintest strains of music could be heard lilting into the crisp night air, although it was clear that there had been no symphony planned. With every step his guest took, the magic he’d woven would bring the hall to life, lighting up the sconces and creating a soft glow that was only amplified by the haunting strains of Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1 being played by an charmed cello in the orchestra pit.
Once his guest reached the center of the hall, the stage would light up, drawing focus to what in his mind, he now referred to as his sculpture. A blood traitor and popular cellist, Evan had gone all out. This was to be his first statement after all. Even now just thinking about how Moody would react when he saw it—how innocent little Mary MacDonald would help fling him into new heights of mystery and obsession was enough to get his heart pounding with excitement.
Franklin Donohue was a pureblood from an unimportant family (well they all were if they weren’t from the sacred 28) who’d been seen supporting muggle rights. He was a known associate—and well honestly he’d just drawn too much attention to himself. Now it was his turn to draw attention to what happened to blood traitors. This… this was why he’d joined the dark lord. To express and create—to send a message that could not be misinterpreted.
Of course he’d left his mark. It wouldn’t do for people to give credit to someone else. Not when he’d worked so hard on it. And so, like many other kills, he’d carved ‘A.M.’ into the man’s flap of flesh where he’d opened up the man’s throat to create his true masterpiece: a cello the world wouldn’t soon forget… In the breast pocket of the cellist’s tuxedo a note was tucked away for Alastor. No more secretive notes. The aurors would know he existed. He was tired of Moody ignoring him—stuffing him into a drawer to be forgotten until the next kill.
“Enjoy the show Miss MacDonald.” He whispered before he sent the random owl winging toward her office. It was late, but that was his intent. He’d started watching her more closely and she kept sporadic hours, but she was consistent—she’d check her desk before her day was done, and then the show was on. There was a simple ticket stub with the concert hall address. The rest was up to Miss MacDonald’s investigative reporter instincts. He just hoped she was up to the challenge...
[Below is the note for Moody.]