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Shadows in St Mungo's: Chapter 02
🕑 Added 2025-03-17 20:50:26 +0000 UTCThe smoke from the cigarette dissipated in slow spirals around Harry's office, mixing with the bitter smell of cold coffee forgotten on the table. The stone walls absorbed the silence of the environment, broken only by the rustling of parchment as he leafed through reports, hospital records and hastily scribbled notes.
In recent days, he had plunged headlong into the investigation, crossing every line of the documents on Adrian Rosier. But despite the volume of information, answers were scarce.
The name Rosier brought an uncomfortable feeling. A shadow of war. Evan Rosier, one of Voldemort's most loyal followers, killed by Alastor Moody years before Harry even set foot in Hogwarts. But Adrian Rosier?
His story was a mystery.
According to Ministry reports, Adrian was not officially a Death Eater. No dark mark, no recorded participation in the war. But the surname carried weight, and Harry knew that the absence of evidence did not mean innocence.
So how did he end up in a coma?
Harry leaned over the files scattered across the table. He had already read that information three times, but something forced him to review every word again.
Admission date: May 2, 1998
Place found: Hogwarts, Hospital Wing
Condition: Deep coma due to unknown spell
Prognosis: Vegetative state, no response to stimuli
Treatment: Constant monitoring; application of weekly restorative spells
Harry twirled the cigarette between his fingers, watching the dark ink that described, in a bureaucratic way, a life placed on hold. Adrian Rosier was found unconscious the morning after the Battle of Hogwarts. The report said that he had been taken to the Hospital Wing with serious injuries, but none of that explained the coma.
“Unknown spell…”, Harry murmured to himself, leaning back in his chair.
A spell powerful enough to keep someone unconscious for five years. If it were a lethal curse, he would have died. If it were something reversible, he would have woken up already. But Adrian was still there.
Sleeping. Waiting.
And now, somehow, he was connected to the death of Edgar Selwyn.
Harry ran a hand through his messy hair, letting out a long sigh. He needed to see him.
But, according to Kingsley, things were more complicated than they seemed.
"St. Mungus does not respond directly to the Ministry, Harry. You can investigate however you want, but access the coma ward? That's going to take time."
Time. Harry didn't have time.
Every day that passed, the clues grew cold. But Kingsley was right. The hospital did not follow direct orders from the Ministry. If someone at St. Mungus wanted to hinder his investigation, they had the right to do so.
Harry closed the report and picked up a new document, this time focusing on Adrian Rosier's treatment.
And that's when he saw the name.
Mulciber.
The name didn't mean much to him at first, so he leafed through the pages for more details.
Chief Healer in charge of the case: Alexander Mulciber
Specialty: Mind diseases and irreversible curses
Treatment: Continuous supervision; inconclusive diagnosis
Mulciber.
The name sounded familiar.
Harry leaned back in his chair, pulling the desk drawers in search of old Ministry files. Something in his memory screamed that he had heard that name before.
Minutes passed as he rummaged through old reports, his eyes scanning the pages with the meticulous precision of an investigator who didn't want to miss a thing.
Then he found it. The Mulciber he remembered was a Death Eater. Not this one, but an ancestor. The Mulciber family was known for its specialty in mental magic. Alexander Mulciber, however, had no criminal record. No official connection to the war. No suspicion of involvement with the Death Eaters. Just a healer who specialized in mind and curses. But what was a specialist in mental magic doing treating a coma patient for five years?
Harry narrowed his eyes at the report.
The obvious answer was that Rosier suffered something that affected his mind.
Maybe a containment spell, maybe something worse. But if Mulciber had been responsible for him from the start... then what exactly was he treating? And why did Rosier never get better?
Harry swallowed the cigarette, his thoughts swirling like the smoke around him. On the one hand, Mulciber was not a suspect. But on the other... he was the only one who knew exactly what was going on with Adrian Rosier.
And that meant that Harry would need to talk to him.
Time dragged on, and St. Mungus remained silent. No official response about the visit to Rosier. No justification. No deadline.
Harry hated waiting.
His instinct screamed that every minute lost was a mistake. That while he was forced to wait for the bureaucracy, someone, somewhere, was working to bury this case before he got too close to the truth.
He exhaled slowly, tasting the bitterness of the cold coffee on his tongue. His eyes returned to another file spread out on the table.
Daphne Greengrass. She lied.
Harry rubbed his face, feeling frustration build like a knot in the bottom of his chest. The question was not only why she lied. But what did she gain from it?
Daphne never had any known connections to Edgar Selwyn. She was never mentioned in investigations involving dark magic. There was no obvious reason for her to hide information about the last time she saw him.
And yet, she lied.
Why? What is she hiding?
Harry turned the cup between his fingers, his eyes fixed on the cold, impersonal words of the report. If there was anything to be discovered about Daphne Greengrass, it wasn't in the quick conversations they had at the hospital.
It was in the records.
He pulled her complete file, his fingers sliding over the worn parchment. And that's where he found the first fragments of a bigger puzzle.
Astoria Greengrass. The younger sister.
Stricken with a degenerative magical disease since childhood.
The information alone didn't mean much, but Harry had heard of cases like this before. Rare, incurable magical diseases, often linked to the patient's lineage. And, as expected, Greengrass's mother virtually disappeared from public life after Astoria's condition worsened.
But what really caught his attention was the next name.
Philip Greengrass. The father.
Harry leafed through the documents, feeling the anxiety grow as he read. Philip Greengrass worked at the Ministry. In the Department of Mysteries. And, as always happened with those who served in that wing of government, much of his file was hidden by secrecy spells. Harry narrowed his eyes.
He was already dealing with a healer specializing in mental magic who was treating Adrian Rosier. Now he discovered that Daphne's father worked directly with the Unspeakables.
Harry felt his body stiffen. Maybe Daphne had nothing to do with Selwyn's death. Maybe she was trying to protect someone. Or, worse… Maybe she knew more about this case than he imagined.
Harry drummed his fingers against the wood of the table, his eyes fixed on the name Philip Greengrass.
The Department of Mysteries.
That's always where the paths crossed.
He leafed through the papers again, looking for any other information about Philip, but most of the records were protected by secrecy spells.
It was common. Unspeakable employees did not have their files available for public reading, even within the Ministry itself. But that only made his name seem even more suspicious.
What exactly did he do there?
Harry leaned back in his chair, bringing the coffee cup to his lips, only to remember that the drink was already cold. He twirled the cigarette between his fingers, an unconscious movement of frustration, before dropping it on the ashtray already full of cigarette butts.
The situation was getting more complicated than he expected.
Selwyn dies inexplicably. The only clue leads to Adrian Rosier, a man who has been in a coma for five years. Rosier, in turn, was being treated by Mulciber, a healer specializing in mental magic. And now, Daphne Greengrass enters the equation, lying about her involvement with Selwyn. Her father worked for the Department of Mysteries.
Harry rubbed his face with his hands.
If this case had been handed over to another auror, someone less experienced, it would have been filed away. But it wasn't just any auror investigating this. It was Harry Potter. And he wasn't going to stop.
When the door to his office creaked open, Harry didn't even need to look up to know who it was.
"If you've come to tell me you still haven't got access to Rosier, Kingsley, I swear I'll..."
"Calm down, Harry."
Kingsley Shacklebolt entered the office and closed the door behind him, his face impassive as always.
Harry sighed, taking a new cigarette.
"Just tell me."
Kingsley crossed his arms.
"I received a return from St. Mungus. They are still analysing the request, but they said that Rosier is under a special protocol since he was admitted."
Harry raised an eyebrow.
"What does this mean?"
"That he can only be examined with authorization from the head of the hospital."
Harry let out a dry laugh.
"Great. Let me guess. That boss would be... Mulciber?"
Kingsley nodded slowly. Harry let his head fall against the back of the chair and closed his eyes for a moment.
"So that's it. This guy has total control over the only patient who can give us a real clue."
Kingsley didn't answer. Harry opened his eyes again, blowing the smoke slowly.
"I'll need to talk to Mulciber, then."
"If he wants to talk to you."
Harry laughed lightly.
"He will."
Kingsley watched him for a moment before continuing.
"And what did you find out about Daphne Greengrass?"
Harry picked up her file and threw it on the table, pointing to a specific name.
"Her father, Philip Greengrass. He worked for the Department of Mysteries."
Kingsley narrowed his eyes and took the document.
"And what else?"
"Nothing. Because all the records about him are protected."
Kingsley turned Daphne's file between his fingers.
"Think this has anything to do with the case?"
Harry exhaled slowly.
"I think the further this case goes, the more everything comes back to the Department of Mysteries."
The Minister of Magic was silent, as if he was processing this statement.
"You want me to try to pull his records?"
Harry shook his head.
"No. If the Ministry starts poking around in the files of a former Unspeakable, they'll know we're after this. I'd rather do it on my own."
Kingsley put the file back on the table.
"This could get bigger than we expected, Harry."
Harry twirled the cigarette between his fingers before finally taking it to his mouth.
"I know."
Kingsley turned to leave, but before reaching the door, he stopped and looked over his shoulder.
"Be careful."
Harry dragged on the cigarette and slowly released the smoke.
"I always am." But both of them knew that wasn't true.
St. Mungus was silent that morning.
Harry crossed the narrow corridors of the hospital, his boots echoing against the polished stone floor. The characteristic smell of healing potions mixed with the slight aroma of aged parchments, a constant reminder that the place was as much a healing center as a bureaucratic machine.
After days of waiting for an answer, he had finally gotten permission to visit Adrian Rosier. But not directly from Mulciber.
The Chief Healer didn't want to talk to him.
All communication was done through his secretary, a formal and efficient woman who offered nothing but the essentials. Harry could almost hear her polished voice in his mind:
"Mr. Mulciber has authorized the visit, as long as you respect the medical restrictions. The patient must remain monitored and no invasive magic can be used."
Harry ignored the last part. If Rosier was involved in Selwyn's death, he needed to find out how.
Upon arriving at the Irreversible State Patients ward, Harry was greeted by a familiar face.
Alden Altman.
The older healer looked exhausted as always, the deep dark circles accentuating his face marked by years of working at the hospital.
"Potter." He sighed, crossing his arms. "I figured sooner or later you'd get in here."
"It was harder than it should have been."
Altman snorted.
"Everything related to Rosier is."
Harry raised an eyebrow.
"Why?"
The healer hesitated for a moment, then looked around before lowering his voice.
"This is not in the official reports, but... ever since he was brought in, some healers believe there is something wrong with this coma."
Harry tilted his head slightly.
"Something wrong like?"
Altman ran a hand over his face, as if considering how much he could say.
"Coma patients have stable patterns. Reduced magical flow, minimal brain activity. But Rosier..." He shook his head. "There are nights when his vital signs fluctuate. Erratically. As if he's... reacting to something."
A shiver crept down Harry's neck.
"Was this documented?"
"A few times. But Mulciber was always quick to dismiss it."
Of course he was. Harry kept his expression neutral.
"I need to see him. Alone."
Altman frowned.
"That's not allowed."
Harry just held his gaze, saying nothing. Altman's reluctance was clear, but in the end, he let out a heavy sigh.
"Twenty minutes."
Harry nodded.
Altman unlocked the door with a subtle spell and pushed it.
"Good luck, Potter."
Harry entered, and the door closed behind him.
The room was small and dark, lit only by the flickering light of the torches attached to the walls. In the center of the room, there was a simple metal bed, the sheets impeccably arranged over Adrian Rosier's motionless body. He looked pale. Not in the sickly way one would expect from someone who had spent five years unconscious, but as if his body had been drained of something essential. His face was angular, the features thin, the chin slightly pointed. The deep dark circles darkened the skin below his closed eyes, as if he was permanently on the verge of exhaustion. His dark brown hair was long, falling over his shoulders, but it was well cared for, indicating that someone at the hospital cared enough to keep it clean. There were discreet scars on his neck and collarbone, almost imperceptible in the low light.
Harry pulled the chair close to the bed and sat down. The room was too quiet.
Harry took his wand and slowly passed it over Rosier's body.
“Vestigia.”
The translucent mist filled the room for a few seconds before disappearing. Nothing. No signature of active magic.
He tried another spell.
“Diagnostica Revelio.”
Nothing. No trace of a curse. No unusual magical activity. Harry frowned. This didn't make sense.
If Rosier was simply in a coma from a common spell, the diagnosis would have already revealed something. But there… there was nothing. No answer. No trace of magic. It was as if he just… stopped.
Harry tapped his fingers against his leg, smelling the slightly sweet scent of the maintenance potions that kept Rosier's body functioning.
Nothing.
He was wasting time. Harry leaned forward, observing the man's motionless face.
"Who the hell are you, Rosier?"
The silence continued.
He sighed and took his wand, preparing to try another spell, when something changed.
A sound. Low, almost inaudible.
Harry stopped. His eyes fixed on Rosier's face. Then he heard it again.
A murmur. Low. Drawn out. And coming from Adrian Rosier's parted lips.
Harry felt his stomach turn. A person in a coma shouldn't murmur. He leaned closer, his heart accelerating slightly. The words were whispered, almost indistinct. He strained his ears.
And then he heard.
"...no use... running."
Harry froze.
The words fell in the room like stones, the silence that followed making them even heavier. What the hell had he just heard?
He held his breath.
"Rosier?"
No answer. The body remained motionless. Eyes closed. Only the steady breathing, the chest rising and falling slowly. But Harry knew what he'd heard. And now, more than ever, he needed to find out who - or what - was speaking through Adrian Rosier.
The silence in the room became unbearable.
Harry didn't move.
The air around him seemed colder than before, an invisible weight pressing against his skin. He fixed his eyes on Rosier, waiting for any other sign that what he heard wasn't just a trick of his tired mind. But nothing happened.
Adrian remained motionless, his breathing slow and regular, his eyelids closed as if nothing had happened.
But it happened. Harry heard it. And the words echoed in his head like an unwanted spell.
"There's no use running."
He moistened his lips, his throat dry. His first reaction was to reach for the cigarette in his pocket, but he stopped in mid-motion. He was inside a hospital, Daphne had already stopped him before. His thumb slid against the cigarette filter, an automatic gesture as he tried to collect his thoughts.
Rosier had been in a coma for five years. It was impossible for him to say anything. And yet…
Harry leaned in a little closer, his wand now firm between his fingers.
"Rosier?"
No answer. He slowly released his breath, watching for any slight change in the body in front of him. Nothing.
Harry picked up the clipboard next to the bed and flipped through the latest medical notes.
The observations were routine.
Patient unresponsive to stimuli. Condition unchanged.
But then he saw something different, a note made three nights ago. The same as noted in the reports.
Unusual recent magical activity. Slight fluctuation in vital signs between 3 and 4 AM.
Harry felt a shiver. The same time as Selwyn's death. The same day.
He closed his eyes for a brief moment, taking a deep breath. If this was just a coincidence, it was the worst possible coincidence.
Harry put the clipboard down on the table next to the bed and stood up, walking slowly around the room. Something was wrong. His instinct screamed it. And it wasn't just about Rosier.
It was about everything.
Selwyn, the paranoid notes, Daphne lying about the last time she saw the victim. Mulciber. The Department of Mysteries. It was as if the pieces were there, scattered before him, but something was missing to connect them.
Harry licked his lips and turned his attention back to Rosier.
He had to test him. He raised his wand again, this time murmuring a more subtle spell.
"Legilimens."
Nothing aggressive. Just a touch. But nothing happened. It was as if Rosier was an empty shell. Harry frowned. He wasn't expecting a real connection, but the mind of any living person has some remnant of activity.
With Rosier? Nothing.
It was like trying to cross a dark veil and finding only emptiness.
Harry felt something cold in his spine. He slowly put away his wand. This was not normal. This was not a common coma.
But then, an almost imperceptible sound broke the silence again. An irregular breath. Harry turned quickly enough to see Rosier's fingers twitch slightly on the sheets.
The reaction lasted a second. Small. Almost insignificant. But Harry saw it. He saw it. His eyes narrowed.
"Adrian."
No answer.
This time, Harry leaned over him, his fingers lightly pressing the man's wrist. The heartbeat was steady. But his instinct said there was something there. Rosier was not completely disconnected. Harry opened his mouth to call him again when, suddenly—
The light in the room flickered. The torches flickered on the walls, as if an invisible gust of wind had passed through the room.
And then—
"Potter."
Harry froze. The sound was low, drawn out, but undeniably real. The voice came from Adrian Rosier. Slow. Too low to be natural. The hairs on the back of Harry's neck stood on end. He looked at the man's still face, waiting for any sign of movement. But he was still in a coma. So how the hell did he know his name?
The silence of the office was heavy, broken only by the soft clinking of the spoon against the coffee cup that Harry was absently turning between his fingers. He was deep in thought. The investigation. Adrian Rosier. What happened at St. Mungo's. The slurred voice that shouldn't exist.
"Potter."
The sound still echoed in his mind, a persistent memory that refused to dissipate. But, even with the case taking up almost all his focus, something else bothered him.
Or rather, someone.
Ginny Weasley.
He hadn't seen her for a while. The meeting in the corridors of the Ministry had been brief - just a moment, a chance. She was there visiting Hermione. And, for a moment, he thought maybe he could just walk past her without having to say anything. But Ginny was never one to leave things up in the air.
"Harry."
The tone of her voice was still clear in his mind. Not cold, not accusing. Just firm. He stopped. He turned around.
She was still the same Ginny as always - her red hair tied up in a hurried ponytail, her expression determined, as if she was constantly preparing for an invisible duel.
There was a strange moment between the two. A silence that said more than any words.
"Are you going to ignore that you saw me?"
Harry had held his breath before answering.
"No."
"Seemed like it."
She crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes at him. Harry knew that look. He'd seen it so many times before. It was the look of someone who wasn't going to back down. He sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets.
"I'm not ignoring you, Ginny. I just... didn't know if I wanted to talk."
She tilted her head slightly.
"And why wouldn't you talk?"
Harry couldn't answer. Or maybe he did, but didn't want to verbalize it.
Ginny analyzed him for a moment.
"You look horrible, Harry."
He laughed lightly, but without humor.
"You always knew how to raise a man's self-esteem."
She snorted.
"I'm not kidding. You're worse than the last time I saw you. Do you sleep? Do you eat?"
Harry looked away.
"I'm fine."
Ginny took a deep breath, visibly frustrated.
"Why do you walk away from everyone?"
The question came without detours. Direct. Uncomfortable. He knew at that moment that there was no simple answer.
"Because I need to."
She crossed her arms.
"Need? Or want?"
Harry didn't answer. Ginny studied his face for a moment before letting out a sigh.
"Hermione still tries to defend you, you know? Says you just need time. That you're focused on work."
She narrowed her eyes.
"But I don't think that's all."
Harry ran his tongue over his dry lips, uncomfortable.
"We're not having this conversation now."
Ginny nodded slowly.
"Sure. You never want to."
And then she was gone. Without anything else. No prolonged goodbyes. She just left the sentence hanging in the air, like a dagger stuck deep enough not to be forgotten.
Now, sitting in his office, Harry still felt the weight of those words.
"Why do you walk away from everyone?"
He didn't know the answer. Or maybe he did, and just didn't want to admit it.
The snap of the door opening interrupted his thoughts.
Harry blinked, coming back abruptly to reality when a young auror hurried into the room, holding a half-crumpled parchment.
"Auror Potter?"
Harry vaguely recognized him. One of the new recruits, fresh out of the academy. Jonas Vickers. He still had that uncertain expression, as if he didn't know how to act around someone he grew up hearing stories about.
Harry just raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to speak.
"We received a call from St. Mungo's."
Harry straightened up in his chair.
"Any news on Rosier?"
"No... another murder."
Harry felt a shiver down his spine. The auror quickly flipped through the parchment, his voice tense as he read.
"The victim is a healer. Name: Malcolm Burkes."
Harry's stomach turned. Another murder. In the hospital. He got up immediately, grabbing the coat thrown over the chair. Vickers swallowed, looking even more nervous now.
"Potter... the description of the scene. The hospital team's report said that—"
"Just say it."
The auror hesitated before saying the words:
"He died with his eyes open."
Harry felt a knot in his chest. The strong smell of cold coffee and tobacco permeated Harry's office as he pushed his chair back and stood up.
His heart was beating at a slow pace, but full of tension.
Another murder. Another body with open eyes.
Harry took his coat and walked past Vickers without saying anything, his hurried footsteps echoing down the hall. The young auror had to hurry to keep up with him.
"What else do you know?" Harry asked, his voice tense, as he headed towards the Ministry fireplace.
Vickers looked at the parchment again.
"Healer Malcolm Burkes, a specialist in alternative treatments. He worked in several wings of the hospital, but lately he was focused on the rare magical diseases wing."
Harry felt something catch in his stomach.
"Rare magical diseases wing?"
"Yes."
That meant he was dealing with cases like Astoria Greengrass's.
Harry didn't have time to process that information. Vickers continued:
"The body was found in the morning, but the time of death was estimated to be around three in the morning."
Harry stopped abruptly, his eyes narrowing.
"3:45."
The same time Selwyn died. The same time Adrian Rosier had unexplained variations in vital signs. None of this was a coincidence.
Vickers continued, turning the pages of the report.
"The cause of death was declared as poisoning. The healing potion he was testing was adulterated."
Harry gritted his teeth.
"So it was a calculated murder."
The young auror nodded.
"Yes. But there's one more thing."
He turned the page of the report and pointed to a scribbled note at the end.
"Before he died, Burkes made one last note."
Harry took the parchment from Vickers' hand and read.
"Someone wants this secret to stay buried."
Harry felt a shiver crawl down his spine. He didn't know what the secret was, but now he was sure of one thing: Someone at St. Mungo's didn't want him getting too close. And he was willing to kill to keep it that way.
"Let's go to the hospital."
Harry threw the floo powder into the fireplace and entered, feeling the magic pull him towards St. Mungo's.
It was time to start digging up that secret.
The magic of the Floo Powder pulled him hard, and Harry felt the familiar impact of landing at St. Mungo's.
The hospital was busier than usual. Healers walked quickly through the corridors, talking in low tones, their expressions full of tension.
Harry recognized the air of fear in the environment. Another murder caused this.
He didn't need to ask where to find the crime scene. A small group of Aurors was already gathered at the end of the corridor, near a room with a half-open door.
Alden Altman saw him first and approached, his eyes tired and full of worry.
"You didn't waste any time."
"I have no time to waste."
Altman ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture.
"Malcolm Burkes was found this morning by a nurse. He spent the night in his private laboratory, working on a new magical regeneration treatment."
Harry said nothing, waiting for the detail that really mattered. Altman swallowed.
"He was dead when they found him. With his eyes open."
Harry felt a shiver down his spine. The same invisible mark of Selwyn's death, even if it was by poisoning. He walked past the healer and entered the room.
Malcolm Burkes' laboratory was a mess of bottles, parchments and ingredients scattered across dark wooden benches. Harry looked around, analyzing everything. Burkes' body had already been removed, but the evidence was still there. In the center of the main table, a silver cauldron contained the remains of a crystalline potion. The surface shimmered under the torchlight, but the liquid was wrong. Very wrong.
Harry approached and examined the bottle next to the cauldron, where Burkes had probably kept a sample of the formula.
He took his wand and murmured:
"Homenum Vestigia."
A light mist swept through the room, revealing traces of Burkes' recent presence. But there was no sign of anyone else. The death was clean. No signs of struggle. No active magic.
Harry turned to Altman.
"Did the forensics find anything?"
The healer hesitated before answering.
"The potion was adulterated."
Harry already suspected that.
"With what?"
Altman crossed his arms, his face serious.
"We're still analyzing, but it appears to have been a variation of alchemical poison. Something extremely rare."
Harry ran his fingers over the nearest parchment, Burkes' last note.
"Someone wants this secret to stay buried."
"What was his research?"
Altman took a moment before answering.
"Regenerative treatments. He believed he could create a method to completely restore tissue and neuromagical connections."
Harry frowned.
"Neuromagical connections."
This couldn't be a coincidence. Adrian Rosier. A man who had been in a coma for five years. Burkes was working on regenerative healing. And now he was dead. Harry's stomach turned.
"Was Burkes working on Adrian Rosier's case?" Altman hesitated for a second longer than he should have. Harry noticed. "Altman."
The healer slowly released his breath.
"Yes."
Harry felt anger grow in his chest.
"And you didn't think this was relevant before?"
Altman raised his hands.
"I didn't know there was a connection! Burkes worked with several patients. But yes, he analyzed Rosier a few times. He believed there was something unusual about his coma."
Harry felt a shiver.
"And Mulciber?"
"He dismissed the suspicions. Said Rosier was just a lost cause."
Harry laughed humorlessly. He looked at the laboratory once more, his eyes fixed on the poisoned potion bottle.
Malcolm Burkes was trying to find out something. And he was killed for it. Harry picked up Burkes' clipboard and analyzed the latest notes.
Hastily scribbled words.
"There's something wrong with Rosier."
"Broken neuromagical connections."
"Not a common coma."
Harry felt his blood run cold. Harry was increasingly certain that Rosier was not in a coma by accident. Someone put him there. And now anyone who got too close or seemed to know something... was dying.
Harry put the clipboard away, took the cigarette from his pocket, without lighting it, and twirled it between his fingers. He needed to find out what the hell was going on at St. Mungo's. Before it was too late.
Harry leafed through Malcolm Burkes' notes with the precision of a hunter. The hasty scribbles indicated a frightened man, someone who knew he was getting close to something dangerous. But it wasn't just about Rosier.
The names that appeared among the records confirmed what Harry feared.
Malcolm Burkes' notes
"There's something wrong with Rosier."
"Broken neuromagical connections."
"Not a common coma."
"Astoria Greengrass - accelerated neuromagical degeneration."
"Shouldn't be progressing so fast."
"Cause of disease - unknown?"
"Correlation between the cases?"
"If it's true... it was all planned"
Harry felt his stomach turn. The names Adrian Rosier and Astoria Greengrass were connected somehow. But how?
He quickly scanned the pages, looking for something else. Among the medical notes and studies on Rosier's coma, something caught his attention.
An isolated sentence. Hastily written. Almost like a warning.
"What they did to them... can't be reversed."
Harry squeezed the clipboard tightly. What they did to them. This wasn't just a disease. This wasn't just a coma. Someone did this to Rosier. Someone did this to Astoria. And Burkes died because he found out.
Harry closed his eyes for a second, trying to organize his thoughts. What did Burkes mean by "it was all planned"?
This was no coincidence. It couldn't be. The Department of Mysteries probably knew something.
And now, he had two urgent questions.
Why was Adrian Rosier put in this coma?
Why did Astoria Greengrass' condition seem to have been accelerated?
Harry put the notes in his coat pocket. He needed to talk to Daphne. Now.
Harry crossed the halls of St. Mungo's with quick steps, ignoring the furtive glances of the healers and staff who whispered in his path.
Daphne Greengrass. She had answers. And he was going to get them out of her.
He found her in the rare magical diseases ward, her light green robe impeccable, her dark blond hair tied in a low bun. She was leaning over a patient, murmuring a diagnostic spell.
Harry didn't wait.
"We need to talk."
Daphne looked up, surprised. But not surprised enough. She murmured some instructions to the nurse beside her and turned to him, her expression controlled.
"Did something happen?"
Harry didn't waste time.
"Burkes is dead."
Her eyes narrowed.
But he noticed something. No surprise. She frowned, crossing her arms.
"How?"
"Apparently, he was poisoned with his own potion. It scares me that you don't know what's going on working at the hospital."
She took a deep breath, looking away for a brief moment.
"That's a problem then."
Harry let out a dry laugh.
"You don't seem shocked."
Daphne looked him straight in the eye.
"I work in a hospital, Potter. People die here all the time. I need to worry about patients, not colleagues."
Harry analyzed every detail of her posture. The cold tone. The calculated look. But there was something beyond that. He crossed his arms.
"Did you know that Burkes was investigating Rosier's case?"
This time, she hesitated. Small. Subtle. But Harry noticed.
"No."
Lie. She looked away too quickly.
He continued.
"What about your sister?"
Daphne froze. The reaction was minimal, but real. Harry continued to stare at her.
"He made notes about Astoria's condition."
Daphne inhaled slowly.
"Burkes evaluated several patients in the rare diseases wing."
"Yes, but he noted that her disease was progressing too fast."
Harry noticed something change in Daphne's eyes. It wasn't fear. It was anger. But not at him.
"If you're implying that Burkes found out something about my sister and was killed for it, I suggest you have proof before you follow that line of reasoning."
Harry didn't answer immediately. She didn't deny it. And that said a lot. He took a step closer.
"So tell me, Greengrass..."
His voice dropped.
"If Burkes was wrong about your sister... why did Mulciber always ignore his reports about the patients?"
Daphne blinked too fast. Harry felt the weight of the truth in the air. She knew something. But she wouldn't say. Not yet.
Daphne took a deep breath and composed herself.
"If you're implying that Mulciber has something to do with this, then you're looking for answers in the wrong place."
Harry held her gaze.
"And you're lying to me."
The air between them became heavy. Harry didn't look away. Neither did she. But he noticed. The way her throat moved when she swallowed dryly. The tensing of her shoulders. The hesitation. She knew something she didn't want to share. But Harry wasn't going to stop.
He took a step back, without breaking eye contact.
"If you're hiding something, Daphne..." His voice was calm. Low. Controlled. "There will come a time when you won't be able to keep it a secret anymore."
Her gaze didn't waver. But he'd already seen enough. She was lying. The silence between them stretched for a moment longer than it should have.
Daphne didn't back down. But Harry knew what he saw. The way her eyes hardened when he mentioned Mulciber. The clenching of her jaw when he spoke of Burkes. The hesitation when he brought Astoria into the conversation.
She was not innocent in this story. Maybe she wasn't directly involved. But she knew more than she was saying. And that meant only one thing: he needed to follow her.
Harry stepped back, keeping his eyes on her.
"This doesn't end here."
Daphne crossed her arms.
"I never thought it would end."
Her response was neutral. Calculated. He just nodded and turned, leaving the ward without another word. But his mind was working fast.
Daphne Greengrass was a piece in this game.
And Harry was going to find out which one.
He just needed to keep an eye on her.
As he crossed the hospital corridors, his mind was already putting together a plan. He needed to follow her. Find out where she went when she thought no one was looking. Observe her routines, her patterns. He didn't like this kind of approach. But he could no longer ignore the facts.
Daphne lied.
And now, Harry needed to know why.
