Chapter 6: Chapter 6Notes:
Thoughts
French
Chapter Text
The Raven smiled up at her from the floor. She didn't exactly expect to get into a fight with her beautiful stalking victim, but this was turning out to be quite the afternoon. In fact, she was more or less just watching her over the past week to see where her investigation landed her. She hoped the blonde might have some leads she could follow on her own. Somehow, the veela caught onto her, even though she was in her animal form for the majority of the week. She'd have to put a pin in that.
Alas, things were not going to plan, but it's not like she could just roll over now. Fleur was looking down at her with livid eyes and blood running down her mouth and chin. Her straight white teeth were bright red when she spoke. The brunette's hand still hurt from where she had crushed it and she was just about catching her breath again from being slammed onto her back. It was all quite frightening and…oddly arousing. Another pin would be needed for that one.
Hermione lingered on the strange realisation for just a moment before swinging her legs around abruptly.
Kani Basami: one leg behind knees, one in front of pelvis. Rotate hips.
Fleur was thrown backwards with the sudden off-balance, and Hermione clambered to get behind her. They grunted and cursed in French and English as they wrestled and rolled on the floor, but she finally got into the position she wanted. The brunette wrapped both her legs around her from behind as Fleur struggled to get her off. She squeezed, tucking a heel between her legs as her arm tightened around her neck again. Hands grabbed at her forearm.
Submit, submit, she pleaded, tightening the hold more. She's going to lose consciousness in twenty seconds.
Fleur suddenly heaved herself forward into a seated position, bringing the surprised brunette off the ground with her before slamming her back down and breaking the arm hold around her throat. She flipped so they were facing one another with the blonde between her legs, and Hermione tried to get a grip on her again, but the veela felt like a bloody tank and almost had her wrists in her strong grip. She ran another assessment of her options.
Fifteen percent chance you'll get out of a pin. Move.
The brunette twisted her arm and checked her hips, pushing off the floor with her right leg to roll them once again before scrambling to untangle herself and stand up. The veela stood more slowly, her own breath coming back. She was still bleeding from her nose steadily, her narrowed eyes dark and dangerous. Hermione grimaced as she backed up out of the nook, flicking her hand towards the Frenchwoman and incanting a spell wordlessly to stop the bleeding and clean her up a little.
The blonde was still stalking towards her, either not noticing or completely ignoring her moment of compassion. The Gryffindor was retreating into the empty street taking in as many details as she could. Fleur looked wildly incensed by this point, but Hermione was having more fun than she'd had in ages. She stopped in the middle of the street as the veela gained on her. Planting her feet in a readying stance, she cocked her head, waiting and watching her body language.
Fleur stopped early, though, and the brunette saw her eyes lighten to a bright, electric blue. Interesting. They just stared at one another for a moment, heavy breaths echoing around them. Hermione could see her calculating, thinking of ending it here, but the brunette didn't want it to be over yet. Not yet.
Piss her off.
Relaxing her posture a little, Hermione beckoned her closer with her index finger and goaded her with a cocky smile, "Don't be scared, Fleur. Come to daddy."
That did it. Fleur's eyes actually turned black, and her nostrils flared as she stepped closer again with an enraged growl. Hermione telegraphed each frame of her incoming stance.
Weight shifting to back foot. Incoming left jab. Dodge, then respond with your own to diaphragm.
She avoided the quick left, and her own fist connected, but man Fleur's toned stomach felt like it was made of marble. She retracted her fist and flexed it a few times. The veela was smiling back at her now, a menacing look written clearly in her black eyes. She was prepared for that one.
Okay, it's on, the Gryffindor smirked back as the blonde's weight shifted to the left again.
You're too close. She will attempt a grab. Another blow, then roll and reset.
Hermione knew she needed to stay on her feet. She was scrappy and resourceful on the ground, but Fleur had a height, weight, strength, and reach advantage over her, and she was not naïve enough to think she didn't know what she was doing by this point.
The veela's left hand reached out for the grab and the brunette leaned back, letting it shoot past her before gripping her wrist and swinging her own left elbow to connect with her jaw. She kept pulling, using her momentum against her as the veela's right swing clipped her cheek and cut open the skin below her eye. She let go of her wrist and ducked from another grab attempt.
Now reset.
A sudden flash of silvery blonde caught her eye before her feet left the floor entirely as the veela fully tackled her in the middle of the street.
Merlin, she is so fucking hot, she thought in mid-air before landed on her back with a deep grunt. Shooting pain seared down her spine. It felt like a truck had run into her, and the weight on top of her was shifting but she couldn't make her lungs inflate yet. She wheezed and coughed, trying to find her breath again with her back aching against the rough cobblestones. There was a pressure on her pelvis, and she opened her eyes again to see Fleur straddling her hips with her wand pointed directly between her eyes.
Fuck.
Realistically, she figured she'd summon it eventually, but that meant this had to end—whatever this was. They were breathing heavily. Fleur still had blood all over herself and she was fuming, black anger lacing the blue in her eyes. Hermione's chest hurt with each breath, but she wasn't ready for it to be over yet. She slowly raised her empty hands in surrender.
"Cheater," she said breathlessly, disappointment laced in her voice. Fleur's eyes narrowed. The wand didn't move.
"What 'ave you gotten yourself into, 'Ermione?" she asked sadly, defeatedly.
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Hermione was looking up her, reading her again. With a gleam in her eyes she raised her forehead, pressing the wand harder against her skin. It was another challenge, but Fleur was tired. Sighing, she dropped her wand back to her side. It wasn't surrender if she didn't know how to win this stupid game.
The Gryffindor tilted her head at the act and her gaze softened. Her cheek was cut and bleeding slightly, and her sweater was torn at the shoulder. In a strange moment of déjà vu, the veela's heart was thudding in her chest, feelings of anger and danger being quickly replaced by desire in her close proximity.
Instead of more aggression, honey eyes roamed over her face, looking oddly concerned despite being the reason for her injuries. She slowly moved her hands lower, tentatively, until her palms rested on the tops of her thighs. Even through her jeans, Fleur's skin felt like it was on fire and she fought the urge to close her eyes at the light caress. A million thoughts swam around her conflicted head, but only one surfaced that she truly needed the answer to.
"W—Why did you—"
"Don't," the brunette interrupted, her eyes flashing in warning.
The air was heavy between them with the weight of five years of things unknown and unsaid. Hermione rolled her head to the side and looked away. Fleur watched her eyes make some sort of decision before they came back, resolved. Just like the Shrieking Shack, she had no say in the matter.
"I told you to be careful, remember?" she said. Fleur could see her throat bob when she swallowed. She had the strange desire to lean forward and kiss it. Hermione was looking at her lips. She swallowed again, "Just…please be careful."
"'Ermione, don't you dare—"
The brunette grimaced and Fleur sank hard onto the cobblestones as the weight underneath her disappeared into thin air.
"Son a bitch!!"
Fleur was left swearing in the middle of the street between angry huffs. Her jaw was killing her; her nose was throbbing; her thoughts were racing.
Can she disapparate without a wand? What was with the fistfight? And why the hell does she always have to disappear like we are in some muggle movie?
She kicked over a garbage bin in frustration and walked back over to the nook to pick up her wand. Resting her back against the wall, she mulled over what the hell just happened and caught her breath.
That wasn't exactly how she thought her confrontation with the brunette would go. She thought if she ever spoke to the brunette again, she would calmly and collectively explain how much her absence had hurt her. She would ask her questions and listen wholeheartedly to her reasonings without judgment. She didn't expect to have an all-out brawl in the middle of Paris, and she definitely didn't anticipate the frenzied rage she still felt in her shaking muscles.
Calm and collective, my ass, she thought.
The physical escalation was surprising, but now was she more than certain at least some of those rumours were true: Hermione Granger was hiding and working as some sort of illegal...something. Not many people were so cunning and impressive in hand-to-hand combat unless they were Aurors, and obviously, she wasn't one. It would explain her reluctance to be seen and why she scampered off the other day. So, who was she working for? Was she on her own, or a part of a larger operation? What was the extent of her skillset? Did she…hurt people, or was more operational? Regardless of the answer, Fleur was slowly becoming aware of the sense of responsibility that came with this information.
On one hand, Hermione was a friend. She had helped her recover from one of the most traumatic events of her life—if not the most—and she had become incredibly fond of the witch over those weeks. Well, fond didn't seem to cut it, now that she thought about it. She hadn't stopped thinking about her all these years. Truthfully, seeing her was wildly confusing. The brunette was beautiful, intelligent, captivating, but fucking hell did she want to throttle her today.
On the other hand, however, the Gryffindor could be dangerous. If she was doing illegal work as a...whatever, then Fleur's duty as an Auror was fairly straightforward when it came to people like her.
Her eyebrows knitted together. If she could disappear without a wand that whole time, why didn't she do that from the beginning? She could have saved herself a headlock and some. Perhaps she wanted the interaction? Did she really want to hurt her? That seemed unlikely. Fleur noticed her smiling more than once, and that fucking cocky smirk set her blood on fire. Was she just toying with her the whole time? Maybe she was testing her. Feeling her out? Or perhaps this was all a big joke to her and she just wanted a sparring session? The veela wasn't sure, but she knew the brunette surprised the hell out of her with her athleticism, and she wasn't exactly put off by it.
But then, her gentle touch at the end; her concern. And when she spoke, it was like no time had passed at all, yet Fleur could feel more weight to her cryptic words.
I told you to be careful, remember?
What was that supposed to mean? Was that a threat? A warning? Things at work were starting to get strange, and her cases weren't making sense at all. Did Hermione know something about them? Was she involved? Was she okay?
She didn't know if it was the back of a skull to the face or the overwhelming amount of information she was trying to process, but Fleur was getting a splitting headache.
"I need a fucking drink," she grumbled to herself, before kicking off the wall and disapparating directly in front of her wine collection.
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118, 132, 144…Shit, passed it.
She titled to her left and hooked a quick U-turn, gaining a little more height with a few beats of her black wings. Slowing down a little this time over the cluster of building to her right, she tried again.
She glided gently towards a wrought-iron gate across the street, beating her wings a few more times to slow her incoming momentum. Gripping the gate with her claws, she cocked her head to listen to the surroundings.
A car alarm was going off in the distance, and someone down the lane had just thrown a few bottles in their recycling bin. Other than that, there was nothing out of place. It was just a residential neighbourhood, after all; a copy and paste of semi-detached brick home after semi-detached brick home, in no outstanding order or fashion. The curve of copies down the mellow lane was much like the street she grew up on, actually. Easy to get lost in and easy to stand out in, but now wasn't the time to get into that.
The Raven watched the house for close to an hour, much longer than she normally would. The sun had fallen and she knew the air was cold but she couldn't feel it. She just kept watching until her sensitive ears caught a distinct pop in the distance. She waited another ten minutes, studying the curtains across the street with a beady black eye. The sun's absence cast started to cast more shadows from the light inside, and finally, a shape moved across the living room. A silhouette she knew well. She stretched her wings and beat them against the cool air up into the darkening sky.
The jet-black bird disappeared from view, but a few moments later a young brunette woman with straight hair and clear skin was standing on the doorstep of the same house. She knocked lightly and waited.
The door creaked open, and the brown eye peering down at her through the gap widened when it spotted her under the porch light. The oak door opened further and she gave a small smile before entering the familiar home.
It reminded her a little bit of her own home these days. Papers were strewn everywhere but there was still a general neatness that was hard to describe and even harder to recognise if you weren't the owner of the mess. The living space was filled with trinkets and innovations of every size, shape, and style. The air was filled with a strange, multidimensional smell that always seemed to invade her senses in waves when she crossed the threshold.
On the wooden coffee table, a quill scratched across an open journal. Six glass tumblers were filled with a swirling bright blue liquid at various stages of luminescence. A thermometer kept rotating between them in steady intervals, and the quill would scratch the results down.
Behind the worn leather couch was a hovering ball of what looked to be small black beads. They looked like the little rubber bullets she would find by the park she played at when she was in primary school, but they moved like magnets or something just as remarkable. It was as if there was an outside force acting upon them, and all of a sudden the beads would shift and reshape. They would buzz around in crazed patterns and then settle into slower, undulating waves. She watched them for a few moments before moving on.
She walked past the other experiments and side-projects without much of a second glance: a shapeshifting form in a cage in the corner; ten Velcro-looking straps next to a stack of black boxes on a side table; a small pile of dissected wands; a full-length mirror that rippled when she passed, like someone had thrown a pebble onto liquid mercury.
They entered the kitchen together and Miles, the homeowner, half-heartedly apologised for the state of chaos. Tinctures and beakers were all over the place, and no less than four cauldrons were simmering on the dining table, varying in colours and endogenous smells. Hermione shook off her coat and hung it on a kitchen chair before plopping down comfortably.
"Nothing I haven't seen before," she said with another smile.
Miles chuckled and the brunette watched as he anxiously tried to tidy up. He picked up his wand and a simple flick sent two dented lids flying onto the bubbling cauldrons and the herbs and extract bottles back into the cupboards.
This was the home of, arguably, her only friend in this day and age. Miles and she met after a few months into her new life. It was a strange experience actually—one she could hardly forget.
She was working at the muggle book shop under a fake name with a heavy glamour at the time. She was putting away a few classics when the bell jingled at the front of the store. She peered through the gap in the shelves to get a good look. The first thing she noticed was how tall the customer was. He had to duck a little under the small doorframe, but most men didn't. He was muscular but skinny, like a cyclist without the crazy quads. One of those body types that ate everything and struggled to gain any weight. His short brown hair was a little damp from the rain coming down outside.
It wasn't exactly freezing out, but it was October in England and Hermione thought it was odd that he was only dressed in a faded t-shirt and jeans. She finished putting away the small stack of books in her hand and made her way over. He was hovering between two stacks, and his throat bobbed up and down a little as he read the category descriptions.
"Can I help you find anything?" she asked, coming nearer. He turned his hips to look at her without shifting up his feet. The Gryffindor could tell from that alone that he was fairly laid-back and had limited interest in how other people perceived him.
"I'm alright, thanks," he replied slowly in a distinct southern accent. He looked up and down at her, and his brow furrowed for a split second.
She nodded just as slowly and replied with, "Well, if you need anything let me know," she turned around to head to the back of the store.
"You're a witch," he said suddenly, and she froze mid-step. Her fist clasped by her side. Sure, she had been practising wandless magic for a few months, but she was nowhere near adept enough to duel or even defend herself at this point. She hoped she wouldn't have to, and she silently thanked her luck the store was empty aside from the two of them.
Turning slowly, her jaw tightly clenched, she appraised the customer more thoroughly.
Relaxed posture. Dirt under his fingernails and a cut on his thumb. Works with his hands. Left arm hanging awkwardly away from his hip. He's got a wand holster on his forearm and he's not used to it. Right-handed. Bulky cell-phone in his front pocket. Likely Muggle-born.
He raised his hands up as her eyes ran over him, "I mean no harm," he continued quietly, "I can just tell."
She narrowed her eyes, still not relaxing her stance, "How can you tell?"
His face suddenly split into a huge smile, and he took a step towards her. She moved back at the same time and his giddiness fell a little. He ran a hand over the back of his neck sheepishly, "Sorry, I-uh, I know that's probably a bizarre conversation starter. I'm a researcher. I do a lot of work on magical signatures and yours is pretty strong," he explained.
"Magical signatures? You can isolate them?" her interest piqued. She relaxed a little, fairly certain he wasn't going to harm her.
"Well, that's what I'm trying to find out! It's fascinating stuff, really," he rambled enthusiastically, digging his hands into his jean and bouncing on the balls of his feet, "I've learned that you can harness some magical properties, but not others. It depends on a few constraints and it's been a real challenge to get right."
A huge grin still plastered across his face. She determined that this stranger, however affronting in some respects, was non-threatening. She could normally detect lies quite easily, and his openness and eagerness were palpable. He was positively giddy now, and Hermione felt like she was speaking to an oversized puppy.
She didn't know if this was wise. Her aim was to get away from the magical world, and this could potentially be a hairline fracture in the beginnings of the steady ossification she been fortifying for months. Then again, she knew she'd realistically have to come back, and it's not like he had to know who she was, right? The prospect of chatting with someone doing their own research on such a fascinating topic was swaying her resolve considerably. It couldn't hurt, and she could tell he wanted to talk about it just as much as she wanted to hear about it.
She stuck out an unblemished, glamoured hand, "I'm Jean," she said. His smile grew and his brown eyes twinkled as he pressed his own hand into hers with a firm grip.
"Miles," he said.
That visit began their strange friendship. Miles visited her a few more times at her Muggle bookshop that year, but eventually she told him she would be moving on and he offered his address if she ever wanted to catch up. She didn't for some time, but his innovations and research were as addicting as his unpretentious personality.
They formed a unique bond over the next few years. She went to visit him every couple of months to chat about his newest projects, and slowly they began to work on projects together. He didn't know anything about her 'job,' but she played off her interests in certain topics as ad-hoc projects from current clients. Miles didn't care. He just wanted to get stuck into things that were unexplained. He was quiet and nerdy, but together they built a fairly impressive little lab of inventions and magical research findings, some of which had helped her immensely on a few assignments.
Miles set a cup of tea in front of her and she burned her mouth on a greedy gulp. He took the seat opposite her and appraised her, his brown eyes twinkling despite his poor kitchen lighting.
"You look like shit, Jean," he said through a smirk, and she glowered over the lip of her steaming mug.
"Yeah, well, you look a bit peaky yourself," she mumbled, and he gave an enthusiastic hum and nodded, his eyes on the kitchen counter behind her.
"Work's been busy," he shrugged, "I'm lucky if I can squeeze ten hours of research in a week at this rate."
"I definitely share your sentiments there," she spoke quietly, but his sharp ears picked it up.
"Busy on your end as well I take it? I thought you just had a holiday!" he grinned, mischief sparking in his warm eyes.
"See? I told you, this is why I don't take vacations. You end up coming back to twice the work that has to be done in half the time."
"Yeah, yeah, cry me a river. We all know you love to be busy, you psycho," he waved a hand and she tried to glower again but she knew a smile was breaking through. He chuckled and took a sip of tea, and a comfortable silence settled between them. She peered into the closest cauldron, humming to herself as the swirling pattern on the surface of the purple solution.
"Dreamful sleep," he explained. She looked back at him with a quirked eyebrow. He smiled, giddiness spreading across his face as they always did when he started talking about his research.
"I was thinking, you know, what if you wanted to sort of like, experience a dream state?" his hands started waving around, punctuating each word, "So I replaced the lavender with Voacanga Africana, but it's pretty psychedelic so I may have to tone it down. I kept valerian and mucus, but we'll see. I think I might have to increase the mucus. Doesn't seem thick enough to me," he rambled, his eyes off in the distance as he watched the swirling pattern.
Hermione watched it too, her brow furrowed as she considered his problems. Mucus would thicken it, but it could also reduce the effects of the active ingredients.
She looked back to him, "No mucus, but extend the brew time two minutes and add 50% more nettle. Should thicken as it interacts with the wormwood and you won't lose the integrity."
His eyes lit up as she spoke and he leaned over to his right in a frantic search for his notebook in an unorganized pile of papers on the table.
"Nettle! Bloody brilliant. Can't believe I didn't think of that," he whispered humbly, writing down the recommendations in penmanship that looked a four-year-old had done it.
"You can repay me with another project," she said deftly, and he looked up in surprise.
"Oh? Anything fun this time?"
"Well, I think it's pretty cool. How familiar are you with Animagus scent?"
The gleam in his eyes told her he was not, but that he would soon remedy that.
She was waiting behind the mirror of the interrogation room. A man in his late thirties with a startling bald patch was whistling to himself and drumming his fingers against the metal table. Every so often he would stop, and the drumming would cease. He'd look around, his curious eyes glancing over her steady gaze in the mirror before looking to the blank wall in front of him. He'd sit still for less than a minute before he was whistling again. His fingers continued their drumming.
A fidgeter. Good, I like those.
This wasn't a suspect. She still didn't have any of those after another month of dead ends. This man—Fleur looked at the notes again in her hand again—Jonathan Fauvet, was an American expat currently living in Rome. He worked in the corporate office of a meat packaging plant, and apparently had a tip-off about her murder case. Normally she'd just do this interview in her office, but she had a strange feeling about how this was going to go. It was very unusual to get any useful information on a serial murder case, so she thought the interrogation room might be better suited for her needs considering how high-profile this case had become.
Fleur closed the file and opened the door to the room.
Jonathan's eyes widened as he watched her self-assured stride into the room. She took a seat and crossed her legs. His bulging eyes watched the movement. The veela refrained from glaring as he got control of himself. He was a Muggle, so the magical element of her thrall was less inhibiting, but she could tell he was still affected by her presence.
"Monsieur Fauver," she started, opening his file and pulling out a muggle pen from the pocket of her blazer. He seemed to collect himself and shook his head. She continued, "Thank you for giving us a call. You may call me Detective Delacour—I am the lead on the string of murders you claim to have some information about."
The man shifted uncomfortably in his seat and took a drink of water, trying to avoid looking at her. Fleur waited. Men like this can never deal with silence for too long, and they tend to overtalk once they get going.
Another sip of water.
Fleur clicked her pen a few times.
He cleared his throat, "I just want to make sure I'm not gonna get into any trouble for this. I'm not, right?"
She stifled a sigh, "I will remind you that you asked for this meeting. If you feel the information you are providing will implicate you, then I would suggest we continue with a lawyer present. If not, you may continue," she gave him a small smile and gestured for him to continue. The smile did it. His posture relaxed a little and he let out a long breath.
He looked longingly at his glass of water but didn't take a sip this time. A bead of sweat on his forehead shone against the fluorescent lights. Fleur waited.
"They call her The Raven," he finally said. She raised an eyebrow, as if unimpressed by the answer, but the speeding train inside her brain was slamming on its brakes. She swallowed and shifted a little in her seat. She clicked the pen again.
"Her?" the Auror questioned, trying to keep her voice in check.
"Yeah" he nodded, "It's a woman, but no one knows who she is or what she really looks like. She always has disguises and can change the sound of her own voice, apparently. Who knows how. She moves around, and never keeps the same contact information longer than one job."
Oh, this can't be good, she thought, her stomach dropping the more he went on.
"And…what does the Raven do?" she asked lightly.
"She murders," he answered immediately, and Fleur furrowed her brow. His forehead was shiny with sweat and he took another drink before continuing, "She's a serial killer. It started off as a job, I think. You know? Like people hired her to kill, but she got cocky, some say. She started to like it. And now she seeks people out on her own."
Fleur's mind was trying to process this quickly. Too many details were missing. She started with logistics.
"'Ow did people contact 'er for jobs before?" the blonde asked. The question surprised him, and his eyebrows drew together.
"Oh, um, I'm not sure. My people are in the business, and they said they just always had a way to reach her if they needed a job done. Said she got back to them quickly, usually."
The veela hummed but didn't follow up with another question. He was squirming again after twenty seconds.
"She, uh, she likes the kill, apparently. Some people think she was wronged, and some think she's just a crazy bitch with some deadly skills, but she can't control herself now and she needs to be stopped."
Fleur watched him as he spoke. Maybe it was his nervous demeanour, but something wasn't sitting right about this. It was both obvious and abnormal. Too easy, almost. It was time to change her tactic. She began clicking her pen over and over in an irksome rhythm. She waited until he glanced at her hand before she stopped and asked, "And what do you think?"
"Me?"
"Oui, you," she indicated with her other hand to the empty room aside from the two of them.
"Well, I dunno. I'm not supposed to tell you what I think. I'm supposed to tell you what I know."
"See, that interests me," the blonde said, leaning forward on her elbows. His eyes darted to her breasts before he looked back up at her. She could see beads of sweat forming on his upper lip. She pressed the end of the pen onto the metal table and started making intricate, nonsensical designs. The light scraping sound was enough to draw his attention. His eyes kept bouncing between the pen and her feigned oblivious expression.
She laid the accent on a little thicker, "Why throw zis Raven under the bus, knowing she iz so dangerous? Do your 'informants' not value your safety, and vice versa?" she asked sweetly, tilting her head a little as if she was worried for him.
"Uh—uhh, I never thought—"
She kept dragging the pen across the metal, "And if zat's ze case, zen I would zink getting protection would be your 'ighest priority. Considering 'ow skilled you claim 'er to be, I am sure she will know if she is wronged in any way, non?"
"Umm, y—yes, I suppose she would. I—"
"And if you are, in fact, assured of your safety, zen I would inquire as to 'ow zat can be so," she furrowed her brow in mock confusion.
"W-Well, I am pretty sure I—"
Fleur cut him off again, losing all the softness in her voice, "Why are you coming forward with this information?" she asked, leaning back in her chair.
His eyes bugged a little at her change in tone before he could school his features. He cleared his throat, "W—Well, like I said, she's dangerous, and I thought the authorities should know all the details so they can stop her."
"But your informants are," she held up both hands to air quote, "'in the business,' as you 'ave described, and the Raven 'murders,' as you mentioned. This leads me to believe your contacts 'ave their 'ands in various illegal activities. So, excuse my confusion, but why put themselves at risk to bring forward a name for a string of crimes they are not responsible for?"
He finally stopped talking, evidently realising where she was going with this.
Fleur continued, her icy blue eyes boring into him, "Unless, of course, your employers have ulterior motives for bringing forward that name. In which case, I still might recommend that you seek protection considering the minimum sentence for perjury in France is ten years, but I thank you for the lead regardless," she left a heavy pause, "I will follow up on it, Monsieur Fauver—you can be assured of that. Merci."
With that, she scooped up his file and left, her stomach in knots and her mind racing. This couldn't be good. Her already complicated case just got a lot more complex, and she was pretty sure a certain freckled brainiac was wrapped up in the middle of it. Whether or not she was innocent…well, she probably wasn't innocent, but whether or not she committed these murders in particular, Fleur would have to see.
For now, she had to deal with a more pressing problem: How the hell do you find someone who is an expert at not being found?