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Shadows in St Mungo's: Chapter 03
🕑 Added 2025-03-17 20:53:31 +0000 UTCHarry's office was immersed in the usual strong smell of cold coffee and cigarette smoke. He turned the page of yet another statement, his eyes scanning the carefully controlled handwriting.
Another healer. Another empty statement.
The staff at St. Mungus knew exactly what to say. Every witness interviewed followed the same pattern.
"Malcolm Burkes was an excellent healer."
"He never showed any concerns beyond work."
"The death was a shock to everyone."
Harry didn't believe a word. They knew more. But they were hiding. He turned another page.
A statement from a nurse in the rare diseases ward.
"Daphne Greengrass was close to Burkes."
"The two of them often talked about unconventional treatments."
"But I never saw anything out of the ordinary."
Harry snorted. He was surrounded by well-rehearsed lies. But, amidst so many neutral words, some omissions screamed louder than any direct answer.
Daphne knew something. And the people around her knew it too.
Harry closed the folder with a sigh, rubbing his temples. His head was pounding. He hadn't slept well in days. The last decent meal he had? Probably last week.
He looked at the clock. It was already past three in the afternoon. Maybe it was time to stop for a few minutes. Maybe it was time to eat something that wasn't coffee and cigarettes.
The air outside the Ministry was cold when Harry left. He adjusted his coat, descending the stone steps without a very defined direction. The streets of Diagon Alley were busy, wizards and witches hurrying to and fro, carrying bags and talking in low tones.
Harry walked among them without really seeing anything. His mind was still stuck on the investigation. He needed a plan. Following Daphne was still the best option. But she was smart. Cautious. He couldn't risk being discovered so soon.
His steps automatically took him to a small wizarding restaurant, a discreet and unfrequented place he had visited a few times. He entered, the bell above the door tinkling softly.
The smell of fresh bread and grilled meat hit him, and his stomach turned. He really needed to eat. Harry sat in one of the corners of the hall and ordered something simple.
While he waited, he pulled a crumpled parchment from his coat pocket. The name Daphne Greengrass shone at the top of the sheet. Below it, dates. Her movements in the hospital, medical reports she signed, office hours. Everything he had managed to gather in the last few days.
He scanned the list, feeling the weight of suspicion grow in his chest. Daphne wasn't just a loose piece in this mystery. She was a knot. And Harry was going to untie that knot.
The food arrived. He picked up his fork, but his mind was still elsewhere.
Daphne. Rosier. Burkes. Astoria. E Mulciber.
He chewed slowly, his mind working like an invisible clock. Something was wrong with this story. He just needed to find out what.
Harry's food was already half gone when a familiar voice interrupted his thoughts.
"Good to see you still know how to hold a fork, mate."
Harry looked up and saw Ron Weasley standing in front of him, a half-smile on his face and his hands in his coat pockets. Ron seemed more relaxed than Harry remembered. He was wearing a slightly wrinkled striped sweater, and the smell of magic gunpowder smoke still clung to his clothes - a sign that he had come straight from the twins' shop.
Harry took a deep breath. He hadn't seen Ron in weeks.
"What are you doing around here?" Harry asked, picking up his coffee cup.
Ron shrugged.
"I came to deliver a special order for a client. George left me with the deliveries while he's dealing with an 'important matter'."
Harry raised an eyebrow.
"Important matter or another one of his experiments that could blow up Diagon Alley?"
Ron pulled up a chair, sitting down without waiting for an invitation.
"Both, probably." Harry gave a dry laugh, but soon silence settled between them again.
Ron studied him for a moment before speaking.
"I know that look on your face from way back. You're investigating something big, aren't you?"
Harry ran a hand over his face, exhausted.
"You have no idea."
Ron folded his arms on the table.
"I bet it has something to do with that guy who died at St. Mungo's. I saw some headlines, but I didn't pay attention.
Harry didn't answer immediately. He didn't want to involve Ron in this. But, at the same time, he needed a new perspective. Someone who wasn't stuck in the same game of lies and bureaucracy. And Ron always had a natural talent for seeing things that no one else noticed.
"It's not just one case, Ron. It's already two deaths."
Ron stopped, frowning.
"Two?"
Harry nodded.
"Edgar Selwyn was the first. Then, Malcolm Burkes."
Ron clicked his tongue.
"Well, if I had to bet, I'd say there's a pretty big name behind this."
Harry sighed, stirring his food without appetite.
"The thing is, everyone at the hospital knows exactly what to say. The statements are careful, well controlled. They don't leave any gaps."
Ron stared at him for a moment before leaning in a little closer.
"What if you're asking the wrong questions?"
Harry frowned.
"What do you mean?"
Ron gestured.
"You're trying to catch someone in a lie, right? But if everyone at the hospital is well trained, you'll never catch anyone." Harry felt something spark in his mind. Ron continued. "But if you ask about smaller things, details that no one thinks to hide, you might find a loose end."
Harry stopped. His instinct started working fast. Ron was right. He was trying to break down a wall of lies head-on. But maybe the solution wasn't to look for the lies. But for the inconsistencies between the truth. If he took each statement and compared small details, he might find something misaligned.
A name that shouldn't be there. A date that didn't match. A work shift that was out of the ordinary. A gap.
Harry put his fork on the table and took the crumpled parchment from his pocket, opening the folder of statements.
Ron watched, crossing his arms.
"Thinking about something?"
Harry flipped through the pages quickly, his eyes scanning each line.
"If I compare the employees' statements and analyze small details, I might find something that no one noticed."
He looked at Ron.
"Like a name mentioned in one statement, but not in another. A place where someone said they were, but another person saw them somewhere else in the hospital."
Ron nodded.
"Sounds like a plan. But how are you going to do that?"
Harry took a deep breath.
"I need time. And I need more statements."
Ron studied him for a moment before smiling.
"Well, if you need a helper, I can lend you George. He's great at catching lies—he's already figured out all the lousy excuses I use to get out of work."
Harry smiled slightly, closing the folder.
"Believe me, Ron. I have enough to break this lie. I just need to find the gap."
Ron nodded, pushing his chair back.
"Right. But promise me one thing?" Harry raised an eyebrow. Ron looked at him with a serious expression. "Don't get too caught up in this. You've done this once before. Don't do it again."
Harry didn't answer. Because he knew he was about to sink even deeper. And this time, there was no way to stop. He needed answers. And now, he had a way to find them.
Harry returned to the Ministry of Magic feeling a familiar weight on his shoulders.
The folder of statements was in front of him, open on the table, his eyes scanning the scribbled words as if he expected something to jump off the pages.
Ron was right.
He had been trying to break the lies head-on, when the answer could be in between the lines. So, this time, he didn't look for the obvious contradictions. He looked for the small details.
The Ministry clock was nearing midnight when Harry realized.
His fingers went through the pages methodically, leafing through statement after statement, noting connections, times, and names. And then—
There it was.
A single line, mentioned in passing in a nurse's statement.
"Daphne Greengrass was seen going down to the lower corridors that night. But since she has access to the restricted wing, no one questioned it."
Harry felt his stomach turn. Restricted wing. The lower corridors of the hospital. He went back a few pages and found another statement.
This time, from a maintenance worker:
"I thought it was strange to see Healer Greengrass entering the storage wing. Not everyone has access. But I figured it was for work."
Date: The night Edgar Selwyn died.
Harry picked up another statement. A nurse from the rare diseases ward.
"I saw Healer Greengrass leaving the lower corridors last night. She seemed… hurried."
Date: The night Malcolm Burkes died.
Harry stood still. Daphne was there. On both days. At both critical moments. And now he had proof of it. Harry closed the folder slowly, his heart pounding. He didn't know what she was doing there. But now, he knew where to look. Daphne Greengrass was definitely hiding something. And Harry needed to find out what it was.
The silence in Harry's office was dense, broken only by the sound of the clock ticking away. He remained motionless, his fingers drumming lightly on the table, processing what he had just discovered. Daphne had been in the hospital's restricted wing on the nights of the murders.
This couldn't be a coincidence.
He turned his eyes back to the statements, going over the words with surgical precision.
"Storage wing."
"Lower corridors."
"Special access."
Harry pulled out a new parchment, diving into the bureaucracy of St. Mungo's in search of answers.
What exactly was this restricted wing? Why did Daphne have access? And most importantly—why didn't anyone question it?
He found an old protocol, a few minutes later, buried among the documents the hospital had provided to the Auror team. The restricted wing wasn't just an ordinary storage area. It was a specific sector, created to store rare substances, confidential medical experiments and, most importantly—confidential research reports.
Harry felt his blood run cold. Malcolm Burkes worked with experimental treatments. He knew too much. And Daphne had direct access to the place where the hospital's secrets were kept. If someone wanted something buried, that was where they would do it.
Harry dropped his quill and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple. This was no longer just a suspicion. Daphne was definitely involved. But how? Was she covering for someone? Or was she also looking for answers?
Harry took a drag of his cigarette, lighting it with a flick of his wand. He needed to confront her. He needed to be smart about approaching her. If he went after her with so little information, she would close up even more. He needed to find out what the hell she was looking for in that restricted sector.
He blew the smoke out slowly, his eyes fixed on the documents in front of him. Daphne wasn't just a loose piece in this puzzle. She was much closer to the centre than he imagined. And Harry was ready to find out everything.
The afternoon was gray over London, a harbinger of rain that hung in the air. Harry arrived at St. Mungo's earlier than he intended. He didn't know exactly what to expect from Daphne. But if there was anything he had learned over the years, it was that people revealed much more with what they didn't say than with what they actually said.
And Daphne Greengrass was hiding something. He found her in one of the corridors near the rare diseases wing.
Daphne had her back to him, organizing potion bottles on a dark wooden shelf.
Harry didn't announce his presence. He just waited. It was only when she noticed the unusual silence that she turned, her blue-gray eyes landing directly on him. Her expression immediately closed.
"If you came looking for treatment, Potter, I have bad news. We don't have potions to rid you of your caffeine and cigarette addiction."
Harry crossed his arms.
"I'm here for another reason."
Daphne sighed, as if she already knew what was coming.
"Let me guess. Another death. Another interrogation."
"Actually, a few questions about you."
She arched an eyebrow, but said nothing. Harry took a step forward.
"Why were you in the restricted wing of the hospital on the nights of the murders?"
Daphne blinked slowly, her face showing no immediate reaction. But he noticed. The slight tension in her shoulders. The brief hesitation before the answer.
"You're wasting your time with ill-founded theories, Potter."
"That wasn't an answer."
Daphne closed the drawer of bottles with more force than necessary.
"I work here. I have access to various sectors of the hospital. I don't see how that's relevant."
Harry didn't look away.
"You have access, but that doesn't mean you should be there."
She hardened. But still kept her expression perfectly controlled.
"If you must know, I was checking inventory and closing administrative records.”
"In the middle of the night?"
Daphne raised her chin slightly.
"Some tasks can't wait."
Harry gave a dry laugh.
"Convenient."
She narrowed her eyes at him.
"Be careful what you insinuate."
Harry took another step forward.
"You be careful, Greengrass. If there's something you're not telling me, now is the time to start talking."
Daphne pursed her lips, as if holding something back. But she didn't give in.
"I have nothing to tell you."
Harry felt a growing fire within him. That was an answer he didn't accept.
"Do you have anything to do with Burke's death?"
Daphne stiffened. But then she laughed. Low. Cold. Scornful.
"Do you really think I would kill one of my colleagues, Potter?"
Harry didn't blink.
"I think you're lying."
The air between them grew heavy. Daphne held his gaze for a long moment, as if considering her words. But, in the end, she just stepped aside, breaking the tension.
"If you'll excuse me, I have patients to attend to."
Harry stood still in the corridor, watching her walk away. She didn't turn around. And he knew. She was still lying. And now, more than ever - he needed to follow her.
Harry remained in the corridor, watching Daphne disappear around the corner. He felt in his stomach that he had hit a nerve. She was lying. The question was why. He took a deep breath and twirled the cigarette between his fingers. Daphne was closing herself off, but her reaction spoke louder than any answer she could have given. She didn't deny that she was in the restricted wing. She didn't try to convince Harry that there was nothing there. She just tried to get him away. And that meant there was something to find.
Harry started walking through the hospital corridors, his eyes analyzing the patterns of movement of the employees. The wings of St. Mungo's were an organized chaos, but even amidst the fast-paced routine, everything had a rhythm.
Healers ran from one side to the other, nurses consulted medical records, patients waited for care on the worn benches of the common areas.
And then he saw Daphne again. She was talking to a gray-haired man, one of the veteran healers, but something about the way they were talking seemed... wrong. The other man looked around from time to time, as if checking to see if they were being watched.
Harry moved to a more discreet corner, watching.
Daphne seemed to say something firm, while the healer nodded, his shoulders tense. After a few seconds, she handed him a small folded piece of parchment. The man took it quickly and put it in his coat pocket.
Harry narrowed his eyes.
Was she sending messages inside the hospital?
Before he could approach, the healer gave one last wave and disappeared down the side corridor. Daphne remained there for a few moments, arms crossed, her gaze distant. As if she was worried.
Then, with a quick movement, she turned and walked in the opposite direction. Harry waited a moment before following her. She was hiding something. And now, he wouldn't let her get away.
The corridors were a maze, but Harry had already memorized the way. Daphne didn't realize she was being followed. She didn't take alternative routes, she didn't look back. That meant she didn't expect to be watched. He followed her to the third floor, where the research and storage wings were. Then she stopped. And she walked in exactly where Harry thought she would go.
The restricted wing.
Harry approached the door, but did not enter. He couldn't be careless. But now, he was sure. Daphne was lying. And the only way to know why was to find out what she was doing in that place. He would need to get in. But not at that moment. He backed away slowly, keeping her position in his mind. This wasn't over. He would be back. And this time, he would see with his own eyes what she was trying to hide.
A mist was creeping over the surface of the lake, dense and cold, making the water almost indistinguishable from the gray sky above. Harry was standing on the shore, his shoes sinking slightly into the damp earth. In front of him, Helena Goshawk's body floated in the still water, eyes wide, fixed on something invisible. Even in death, she seemed to have seen something no one else could see. The experts had already conjured spells to prevent the body from sinking and were waiting for the completion of the expertise before removing the corpse.
Harry took a drag of a cigarette, slowly, observing the details around him.
The lake was located in a remote area of the city, a place that hardly anyone would visit at night. It was silent, untouched. And now it was a crime scene.
The auror in charge of the expertise, Liam Ackerley, approached, his dark eyes carrying a tiredness similar to Harry's.
"Never seen anything like this before."
Harry slowly released the smoke.
"So you didn't read the other victims' reports."
Ackerley clicked his tongue and crossed his arms.
"Not in detail. I heard about the cases at St. Mungo's, but this woman here... She has no connection to the hospital. No relationship with Selwyn or Burkes. No connection with advanced magic or the Ministry."
Harry frowned, looking again at the victim. Helena Goshawk was completely different from the previous victims. Selwyn was a former Death Eater. Burkes was a healer involved in experimental research. But Helena? An ordinary witch. No record, no relations with high society witch, no involvement with dark magic. Nothing.
Harry narrowed his eyes.
"Tell me about the death."
Ackerley sighed and gestured to the experts around him.
"Preliminary analysis indicates that she died exactly like the others, inconclusively, although the expertise is suggesting that it was by drowning. No signs of offensive magic, no traces of a curse. No visible physical injuries."
Harry crouched down near the edge of the lake, taking a closer look at the body.
Helena's face still bore an expression of absolute horror.
"Eyes open. Fixed on emptiness"
Ackerley nodded.
"Yes. The same pattern."
Harry got up slowly. This didn't make sense. Helena shouldn't be a victim. If the others were murdered for being close to something dangerous, then why her? He looked at Ackerley.
“Where and when was she last seen?”
The auror pulled a scroll from his pocket and unrolled it.
“She was seen leaving Diagon Alley last night, around eleven o'clock. According to witnesses, she was alone. She didn't seem worried. Just… normal.”
Harry frowned.
“And after that?”
“Nobody knows how she ended up here.”
Harry rubbed his temple. What did this mean? Either the killer was changing targets… Or this death was a piece of a bigger game.
Harry took a step back, the cold breeze from the lake chilling his skin. He felt the growing weight of the truth. This wouldn't end anytime soon. And, deep down, he was sure that this wouldn't be the last death.
Harry lit another cigarette with an automatic flick of his wand, taking a deep drag as he watched the mist creep over the surface of the lake.
The cold breeze carried a metallic smell, mixed with the damp odor of earth and stagnant water. Helena Goshawk's body still floated on the shore, her eyes fixed on something no one else could see.
Harry exhaled slowly, the smoke mingling with the dense afternoon air. Three deaths. Selwyn. Burkes. Now Helena. Two of them made sense. But Helena Goshawk? She didn't fit.
Harry turned to Ackerley, who was still analyzing the scene alongside the experts.
“Did you check her pockets? Anything that might indicate why she was here?”
The auror nodded to one of the investigators, who took out a small, enchanted transparent bag and handed it to Harry. Inside, there was a crumpled note, the ink blurred by moisture.
Harry carefully pulled the tip of the parchment and read the faded words:
“I know they did something. The images are blurred, but I can still remember the feeling.”
Harry felt a shiver go up his spine.
Ackerley crossed his arms.
"What do you think that means?"
Harry swallowed again, his eyes fixed on the note.
"It means she wasn't just a random victim."
Helena saw something. And that's why she died. But what? And who were "they"?
Ackerley scratched his beard, thoughtful.
"Do you think it's connected to the other murders?"
Harry didn't answer immediately. He looked at the dark water, then at the still body. The face frozen in terror. The same expression Selwyn had. The same expression Burkes had.
This couldn't be a coincidence.
"I don't think so," Harry finally said, putting out his cigarette against his boot and throwing the butt into an enchanted bag in his pocket. "I'm sure."
He put the note in his coat, feeling the weight of the paper against his chest. This wasn't a simple murder. Someone was pulling the strings. And now, Harry needed to find out who. Before the next body appeared.
Confidential St. Mungo's files were scattered across Harry's desk, some still covered with the seals of secrecy that he had broken moments before.
Getting a court order hadn't been easy. St. Mungo's had its own autonomy, a hospital that served the wizarding community even before the Ministry of Magic existed. But not even they could ignore an official decree.
Harry didn't like resorting to this kind of approach. But he needed those answers. And now, they were there.
The reports were old—some dated back to years before the Second Wizarding War, describing experimental medical procedures conducted on unconscious patients.
He turned a few more pages, his eyes scanning the listed names. None of them were authorized to undergo any kind of test. None of them were awake to consent. But then he found something.
A name he already expected.
Adrian Rosier.
But he wasn't alone.
Harry continued to leaf through the documents, his eyes pausing on two other familiar names.
Astoria Greengrass. Helena Goshawk.
Harry's stomach turned. Daphne lied about a lot of things. But now he knew why. Her sister was one of the guinea pigs. He quickly turned the page, his hands squeezing the parchment tightly. The experiments didn't start during the war. They already existed before.
And then he saw something that made him hold his breath.
Date of test filing: 1998.
Responsible for the suspension order: Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt.
Harry slowly released his breath. The tests were terminated when Kingsley took over. That meant someone in the old government allowed it all to happen. And worse, someone inside St. Mungo's was still keeping these secrets buried.
Helena's note came back to his mind.
"I know they did something. The images are blurred, but I can still remember the feeling."
Harry felt his blood run cold. This wasn't just an investigation. It was a scheme covered up for years. And now, someone was eliminating anyone who got close to the truth.
Harry closed his eyes for a moment, his fingers squeezing the report.
Daphne knew about it. She always knew. Now he needed answers. And there was only one way to get them. He had to confront her, directly now. But this time, she wouldn't leave without giving answers.
The Minister of Magic's office was imposing and austere, with large enchanted windows that simulated a clear, blue sky over London.
Harry entered without detours, holding the folder of old reports in one of his hands.
Kingsley Shacklebolt, seated behind the large dark mahogany desk, looked up as soon as he saw him.
The Minister did not seem surprised.
"Harry."
Harry threw the folder on the table without sitting down.
"I need you to tell me what you know about this."
Kingsley raised an eyebrow before opening the folder, leafing through the documents. His face remained impassive as he scanned the pages, but Harry noticed the slight tension in his jaw.
"Did you get this with a court order?" Kingsley asked, without looking up.
"I did. And what I want to know is why these experiments were allowed for so long."
Kingsley calmly closed the folder, resting his palm on it before finally facing Harry.
"I don't know much about this."
Harry didn't believe it.
"This was happening right under the Ministry's nose, and no one noticed?"
Kingsley sighed and leaned back in his chair.
"When I took office, many of the former government's research projects were underway. Some were completely harmless. Others, like this one, were more complicated."
Harry crossed his arms.
"Complicated how?"
Kingsley picked up a scroll beside him and opened it, as if trying to remember something.
"The Ministry faced a financial crisis right after the war. Many departments were sucking up resources we couldn't maintain, and I was forced to cut several unfinished research projects. St. Mungo's was part of that. Mainly within the Department of Mysteries." He pointed to the report. "The research was archived."
Harry frowned.
"And that's it? No one investigated what they were doing?"
Kingsley was silent for a moment.
"The truth, Harry? The Ministry was in shambles. We needed to rebuild, we needed stability. This wasn't the only dark project being covered up."
Harry narrowed his eyes.
“Covered up by who?”
Kingsley shook his head slowly.
“I know you think there’s something bigger behind this. And maybe you’re right. But I don’t have the answers you’re looking for.”
Harry didn’t like the answer. Not because he thought Kingsley was lying. But because he knew he was hiding something. Kingsley was not an easy man to manipulate. If he didn’t investigate this at the time, it was because he couldn’t. Which meant that someone more powerful than him still had influence over what happened. Harry felt the weight of the case grow on his back.
He pointed to the folder.
“I won’t let this die as an old file, Kingsley.”
The Minister held his gaze for a moment before nodding slowly.
“I know.”
Harry took the folder back, turned and left without another word. He didn’t expect Kingsley to give him all the answers. But now he was sure of one thing. Someone inside St. Mungo’s was involved.
And he would find out who.
The office at Grimmauld Place was submerged in shadows, lit only by the flickering flame of a candlestick in the corner of the table. Harry was sitting in his worn leather chair, a forgotten glass of whiskey next to the pile of scattered reports. The smoke from the last cigarette hung in the air, mixed with the woody smell of the drink. He rubbed his face, exhausted, before raising his eyes to the board on the wall.
The photos of the victims were stuck there with adhesive spells, connected by red lines drawn between them.
Edgar Selwyn - found dead in the hospital.
Malcolm Burkes - murdered in his own ward.
Helena Goshawk - found in the lake.
Their eyes fixed on nothing. Their expressions frozen in the same absolute terror. Harry twirled the glass between his fingers. He still hadn’t received the autopsy report. That bothered him. Something was being held back.
But then, something caught his attention. He leaned forward, picking up one of the old reports. His eyes quickly scanned the lines, and then stopped. The date. The period of hospitalization. He picked up the report of another victim. Then another. And then he realized. All the victims had something in common. They were all at St. Mungo’s at some point after Adrian Rosier’s hospitalization.
Harry felt a shiver creep up the back of his neck.
He pulled out a parchment and began to scribble notes quickly.
Selwyn - was treated for simple magical poisoning.
Burkes - healer, involved with medical research.
Helena - former patient, discharged years ago.
And Rosier? He had been in a coma for five years. And yet, somehow, he was at the center of it all.
Harry leaned back in his chair, picking up the unlit cigarette from the ashtray and twirling it between his fingers. This was no coincidence. The victims were not chosen at random. But what did they know? What happened inside that hospital after Rosier was admitted?
Harry took a deep breath. The invisible smoke seemed to be suffocating the environment. He picked up a new parchment and wrote just one name at the top.
Adrian Rosier.
If there was an answer to all this… It started with him. The clock said three in the morning when Harry finally stopped.
He leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on the board in front of him.
The photos of the victims were still there, held by connecting lines, their faces frozen in the same absolute terror. And at the center of it all, Adrian Rosier. The man who never woke up. The man who, somehow, was connected to all the deaths.
Harry took the glass of whiskey, but realized it was already empty. He didn't remember drinking it all. Or maybe the tiredness was starting to swallow everything around him. The silence of the house was heavy, only broken by the sound of his own breathing.
He picked up the cigarette he had left aside, but didn't light it. Instead, he just stared at the flickering flame of the candle. This case wasn't just about murder. It wasn't about revenge, nor about an isolated crime. It was something much bigger.
Harry felt the weight of this thought like a physical blow. He always knew that monsters walked in the darkness. He had hunted many of them. But this feeling—this unease creeping on his skin—was different. As if he was approaching something that shouldn't be touched. As if he was unearthing something that should have remained forgotten. Rosier's name seemed to pulse on the parchment before him, like a curse.
And then, the silence was broken.
A dry, low, distant noise.
Harry froze.
His eyes scanned the darkness of the office.
The sound didn't come from the house.
It didn't come from the street.
It came from inside his mind.
A laugh—low, whispered, sharp.
Like an echo of something that shouldn't be there.
Harry stood up suddenly, knocking the chair to the floor.
His breath caught in his chest.
The candle flickered, shadows spreading across the room.
But there was no one there. Just the board. Just the faces of the victims. Just the open eyes, staring into the void.
Harry took a deep breath, forcing himself to push the feeling away. But the discomfort didn't go away. For the first time in years, he wondered if he was being watched.
And for the first time in a long time, he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer. He took his wand and extinguished the candle with a single movement.
Darkness took over the room. And with it, something new arose in Harry's chest. Something he hadn't felt since the war. Fear.
