Writer of the Aether
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Shadows in St Mungo's: Chapter 07
🕑 Added 2025-03-25 13:37:21 +0000 UTCThe house was immersed in silence. The only source of light came from the fireplace, its flames casting dancing shadows on the walls of the study. The wall clock read 2:47 in the morning, but Harry had not yet gone to bed.
Daphne had already gone to the bedroom. He could hear her light footsteps upstairs just before silence reigned completely. But he could not rest.
Seated at the desk, Harry ran his fingers over the papers spread out before him. Documents, medical reports, Ministry files… fragments of a truth that still did not fully fit together.
He took a deep breath and sipped the whiskey that remained in his glass. The connections were there. The victims, Selwyn, Burkes, Goshawk, Vaisey… all were linked in some way. And all had one name in common.
Mulciber.
Harry pressed his lips together, scanning every note he had made.
Selwyn knew him from the past, Mulciber treated his poisoning.
Burkes was a healer who started asking too many questions.
Goshawk was receiving psychiatric treatment and had glimpses of distorted memories.
Vaisey was researching the Department of Mysteries and, on the day he died, he was with Mulciber.
This couldn't be a coincidence.
Harry leaned forward, drumming his fingers on the wooden desk. But then, there was Daphne. He pulled another set of papers, this time on the Greengrass family. Daphne wasn’t supposed to be involved in this. But somehow, she was.
He flipped through the pages, recalling their conversation earlier. Daphne said that Mulciber had offered an experimental treatment. And that, for a while, it worked. Until it didn’t anymore.
Harry bit the corner of his lip, a growing unease settling in. If Mulciber had some connection to the murders… then what the hell had he done to Astoria? Why hadn’t he killed her like the others?
He dropped the papers and rubbed his face, exhausted. The storm outside had died down, but something still lingered in the air. A feeling that he was getting closer to the truth. And that maybe he wouldn’t like what he was about to find.
The tip of the cigarette glowed in the darkness.
Harry took a slow drag, his eyes fixed on the papers before him. The bitter taste of smoke mixed with the residual whiskey on his tongue, but he barely noticed.
His gaze moved from one name to another, mentally tracing the connections that now seemed obvious.
Mulciber. He was the central piece. But what was his true connection to all of this?
The Ministry shut down the Department of Mysteries project after the war. That was in the records. The experiments had been halted. All research archived. And yet… the murders were happening. People who were connected to it.
Harry frowned, tapping his fingers on the wooden desk. If Mulciber was involved, did that mean he had continued the experiments in some way? But how?
The Department of Mysteries wasn’t a place one could come and go from unnoticed. It was one of the most restricted and controlled sectors of the Ministry of Magic. Well, ever since he had broken into that section when he was fifteen.
If the project had been shut down, the records should have been sealed. Unless…
Harry stopped. A dangerous thought crept into his mind. What if not everyone involved had agreed to shut the project down? What if someone had wanted to continue? Someone with enough influence to protect Mulciber all these years.
The cigarette burned down to the filter in Harry’s fingers, and he quickly put it out in the ashtray. This experiment was never truly shut down. At least, not for Mulciber.
Harry pressed his hands against his face, feeling the weight of exhaustion. He needed to know what Mulciber was really doing. And, more importantly… who was protecting it all.
The answer was still in the Ministry.
Harry narrowed his eyes, feeling his headache intensify. The cigarette smoke still lingered in the office, mixing with the scent of aged parchment and cheap whiskey.
The Unspeakables of the Department of Mysteries answered to very few people. Previous Ministers had always struggled to control them. And what if there was someone inside the Ministry ensuring that Mulciber was never questioned?
Harry felt his stomach turn.
“Damn it…”
He leaned back in his chair, running his hands over his face. He needed a name. Someone with enough authority to keep the Department of Mysteries in check. Someone with influence inside St. Mungo’s. He pulled out a blank parchment and started scribbling names. Ministers, department heads, influential healers…
But there was a problem. If it were someone high-ranking, Kingsley would have noticed. Unless… Harry raised his eyebrows.
“The Council.”
The Ministry’s Administrative Council carried significant weight in internal decisions. They were a group of influential wizards, advisors who had existed long before Kingsley took office. If any of them were involved… then Mulciber would have had free rein to continue his experiments.
He stood up, feeling exhaustion pull him back into the chair, but he ignored it. He needed to find records of the Council from five years ago. He needed to know who had signed off on the official shutdown of the experiment. Harry narrowed his eyes.
If Mulciber’s name wasn’t there… then it had never been officially shut down. And that meant someone in the Ministry knew everything. The question was: who else was playing this game?
Harry pushed his chair back, ignoring the creak of aged wood against the floor. The clock was nearing four in the morning, but he didn’t even consider resting. He grabbed a crumpled piece of parchment from the corner of the desk and began scribbling rapidly.
If there was a paper trail, then he would have to follow it to the end. He jotted down the connections he had uncovered:
Mulciber continued the experiments.
Someone in the Ministry protected him.
The Administrative Council was responsible for shutting down the projects.
If Mulciber's name isn’t there, it was never officially terminated.
Harry massaged his temples, his eyes fixed on the paper.
The Administrative Council had always been composed of the oldest and most conservative wizards in the Ministry. And if any of them had ties to the Department of Mysteries, then it made sense that Mulciber had protection. But who?
He pulled another document from the pile—one of the old records he had obtained through favors within the Administration. The parchment was thin, faded, bearing the signatures of the Council members who had voted to shut down the secret research. Harry scanned the signatures one by one. All the names were expected.
Except one. A name unknown, isolated at the end of the list.
Castius Burke.
Harry held the parchment closer to the flickering firelight, trying to remember where he had heard that name before. His mind raced against exhaustion, running through old memories. Then, it stopped.
Burke.
He quickly pulled another report—the one on Malcolm Burkes, the murdered healer. The signature at the end of Burkes’ last note jumped out at him:
"Someone wants this secret to remain buried."
It couldn't be a coincidence.
Harry pulled his chair back and leaned over the desk, his mind working fast. If Castius Burke was a Council member… If Malcolm Burkes was a healer investigating the case… If Mulciber was at the center of all this… Then the connections ran deeper than he had imagined.
Harry narrowed his eyes. He didn’t know who Castius Burke was. Nor his relation to Burkes. But now, he had a name. And that was the only lead that mattered.
The storm outside had subsided, but the chaos inside Harry’s mind only grew. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, trying to organize his thoughts.
The name Castius Burke still weighed on the desk in front of him, but another concern was beginning to creep into his subconscious.
Daphne.
Harry ran his tongue over his dry lips, grabbing a cigarette from the crumpled pack on the desk. The attack. He lit the cigarette and took a deep drag, letting the smoke slowly dissipate through the stuffy office. Daphne said that Mulciber was after Astoria. But what if she was wrong? What if he was after her?
The thought slithered through his mind like a slow-acting poison. Astoria had been weak for years, now she was hospitalized at St. Mungo’s, directly monitored by Mulciber. If he had wanted to kill her, he would have done it already.
But Daphne… Daphne was a problem. She hadn’t just started investigating what happened to Rosier. She had discovered her father’s notes. She had directly involved herself with Burkes. And now, she was by Harry’s side. Not that Mulciber knew that.
Harry pressed the cigarette between his lips, the bitter taste of tobacco mixing with the whiskey that still lingered in the glass before him. If Mulciber wanted to silence witnesses, Daphne was the most dangerous piece on the board.
She knew too much. And Mulciber knew she was starting to understand.
Harry exhaled the smoke slowly, feeling a knot tighten in his stomach. What if she was next? He closed his eyes for a moment. The attack on her wasn’t a warning.
It was an attempt to eliminate her. The difference was that this time, she escaped. But what if he tried again?
Harry stood up abruptly, making the chair creak against the wooden floor. He looked toward the office door. Daphne was upstairs. Alive. But for how long?
He wouldn’t let Mulciber—or anyone else—touch her. Not now. Not after everything.
Harry remained standing for a long moment, his fists clenched at his sides. The feeling that he was always one step behind, running against something invisible, consumed him. If Daphne was the real target, then there was no more time to waste.
He turned sharply, striding toward the still-burning fireplace. The fire crackled low, casting uneven shadows across the office. The thought of Mulciber striking again made his chest tighten.
He grabbed his wand and pointed it at the ceiling, murmuring a Detection Charm. A bluish light glowed for a few moments, scanning the structure of the house before vanishing into the darkness.
No sign of intrusive magic.
Harry exhaled slowly. Daphne was safe... for now. But for how long?
He returned to his desk and grabbed a new piece of parchment, quickly scribbling a list of protective spells. If Mulciber tried something within Grimmauld Place, he needed to be ready.
His gaze lingered on the notes still scattered across the desk. All the victims had been eliminated without leaving any clear traces. If Mulciber had this power… then he wasn’t the only one involved. Someone inside the Ministry was ensuring that no one asked questions. And Castius Burke seemed like the most likely name.
Harry closed his eyes for a moment, the exhaustion weighing on him. He needed to act. But first... he needed to ensure that Daphne was protected.
With a flick of his wand, he began casting additional spells around the house. Magical barriers, tracking protections, anti-apparition charms.
The old Grimmauld Place would once again become an impenetrable sanctuary. If Mulciber or whoever was behind this tried something… they wouldn’t get in so easily. And if they did, they wouldn’t leave unscathed.
When he finished, he turned to the office door, hesitating for a moment. Daphne was sleeping upstairs. The night was not over. And he needed to make sure she would wake up alive.
The Ministry of Magic was immersed in the absolute silence of the early morning. The once-bustling corridors were now just long shadows under the dim light of the enchanted torches.
Harry moved quickly, keeping close to the dark stone walls. Most of the guards were scattered. At this hour, the only staff awake were in the Night Patrol or in the International Magical Monitoring sectors.
He avoided the elevator, choosing the narrow stairs that led to the basement. The Records Floor was two levels below the Department of Mysteries. It was a fortress of forgotten documents, scrolls accumulated over decades, stored on endless shelves. If Castius Burke was truly an important name in the Ministry's Administrative Council, his records would be here.
Harry descended step by step, feeling the adrenaline pulse in his chest. No one could see him. No one could know he was there.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he drew his wand and muttered:
"Alohomora."
The archive door remained motionless. Of course, it wouldn’t be that simple. He touched the tip of his wand to the lock and murmured another spell. This time, a metallic click filled the silence.
The door unlocked by itself. Harry pushed it open, stepping into the stuffy, dark hall filled with steel drawers and cabinets reaching up to the ceiling.
He moved quickly between the shelves, scanning the identification plates. The Administrative Council's files were in the protected section.
He found the correct drawer, pulled it open firmly, and began flipping through the old records. His eyes quickly scanned the signatures of various members. And then, he saw the name.
Castius Burke. But not as he had expected.
Harry frowned, reading the report more slowly, making sure he was understanding it correctly.
Castius Burke died during the war. Date of death: October 1997.
This was impossible. He was sure Castius Burke had signed the Administrative Council paperwork.
If he was dead when Voldemort took the Ministry... then who signed the closure of the experiment?
Harry's heart hammered in his chest. He pulled out another document.
Castius Burke's signature was present in the Council meetings of 1998.
After Voldemort's fall. After the war. But Burke had already been dead. Harry felt his stomach turn. Someone forged his name. And that person was behind everything.
Harry felt his throat dry as he stared at the parchment before him. The words seemed to distort under the dim light of the magical torches, but the truth was undeniable.
His fingers tightened around the edge of the paper as his mind raced in circles. This meant that someone within the Ministry was using his name. That someone needed Mulciber to continue his work. That someone authorized the continuation of the experiments.
Harry didn’t know if he was trembling from the adrenaline or from the weight of the discovery. But before he could think any further... a noise.
Footsteps echoed down the file hall. His instincts screamed in alarm. He quickly gathered the papers and slid the drawer back into place, feeling cold sweat trickle down his neck.
He turned slowly, his eyes fixed on the entrance of the hall. A bluish light flickered against the dark walls. A patroller. Harry shrank back against the shelves, holding his breath.
"Is someone there?" The guard's voice cut through the muffled silence of the room.
He heard the metallic sound of a wand being drawn. Harry swallowed hard. The patroller was approaching slowly. Time seemed to drag as the footsteps echoed across the stone floor.
Harry mentally counted the seconds, waiting for the right moment.
Three... two... one...
The instant the bluish light turned the corner, he cast a silent spell.
"Obscuro."
The enchanted torch went out in the same moment, plunging the corridor into darkness.
"Shit!" The patroller muttered, stumbling. — "Lumos!"
Harry seized the moment of distraction. He darted to the other side of the shelf, moving quickly through the narrow space. The darkness was his ally.
The patroller didn't see him slip behind the row of drawers and head toward the exit.
"Is anyone here? Show yourself!"
Harry reached the door and made a swift motion with his wand.
"Silencio."
The spell muffled any sound he might make. And then, he left. His heart still pounding in his chest.
He hurried up the stairs, taking quick but careful steps, avoiding the main corridors. The risk had been worth it. Now he knew Burke wasn't in control. And someone within the Ministry had signed the documents with a dead name.
Someone was playing a bigger game than he had imagined. But who? And what else were they hiding?
Harry needed to find out. Before he was the next name on the list. Or worse, before it was Daphne.
The night had been long. Harry didn’t know if what weighed more was the exhaustion or the burden of the discovery at the Ministry.
Someone within the Administrative Council was manipulating documents. Someone was still protecting Mulciber.
He Disapparated directly to Grimmauld Place. The wards would allow his presence, even with the spells, and he passed through the heavy door, feeling the stuffy air of the house envelop him. There was no time to rest.
He needed to organize the information before it slipped through his fingers. But as soon as he took off his coat and tossed the keys onto the table, a silver gleam filled the room.
A Patronus. The air seemed to freeze as the translucent figure took shape. It was a hawk. Alden Altman’s voice echoed in the room, laden with pure desperation:
“Potter, for Merlin’s sake, you need to come to St. Mungus now.”
Harry felt his stomach sink.
“Rosier woke up.”
The information hit him like a whip. The Patronus continued, Altman’s voice nearly coming out in a trembling whisper:
“He’s completely out of his mind. We need five guards to hold him. Mulciber locked down the entire floor.”
The Patronus dissipated.
The day was almost breaking.
Harry stood still for a moment, his fingers gripping his wand tightly. Rosier woke up. The realization was as absurd as it was inevitable. Five years in a coma, trapped in a state of lethargy that shouldn’t have been possible… And now, he was awake.
The thoughts came like an avalanche, crushing any possibility of ignoring them. He needed to piece it together. Why now? Why had Rosier been in a coma for so long and suddenly woken up at the exact moment Harry’s investigation got too close to the truth? It couldn’t be a coincidence.
He rubbed his face with his hands, his eyes burning from fatigue and insomnia. If Rosier had woken up, he was a problem. A loose end.
And Harry already knew what happened with loose ends in this case. Selwyn. Burkes. Goshawk. Vaisey. And now… Adrian Rosier. Mulciber would kill him. If Mulciber locked down the floor, then Rosier had no way of getting out. The next name on the body list was already sealed.
Unless Harry got there first. The early morning still crept outside, giving way to dawn. But if Adrian Rosier was awake, Harry couldn’t waste any more time. Mulciber wouldn’t wait.
Harry felt every fiber of his being telling him he was running out of time. He put out the cigarette in the already overflowing ashtray and stood up with a jolt, grabbing his coat and wand. There was no other option. He had to stop Adrian Rosier’s death. And he had to do it now.
With a firm twist, he Disapparated in the middle of the room, feeling the pull in his stomach as Largo Grimmauld vanished into the void of magic.
