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Shadows in St Mungo's: Chapter 01
🕑 Added 2025-03-17 20:47:02 +0000 UTCThe room was still submerged in the morning twilight when Harry awoke, his head pounding as if something was trying to break through his skull from the inside. The hangover was an old acquaintance, a recurring visitor who never came alone - it brought with it a dry mouth, the bitter taste of cigarettes and alcohol, and the familiar feeling of emptiness that had accompanied him since the end of the war.
The first thing he noticed was the smell impregnated in the sheets: a mixture of floral perfume, cheap whiskey, and the slightly metallic aroma that always lingered on the clothes of those who spent too much time in smoky bars.
The second was the weight at his side.
Turning with a slow and painful movement, Harry saw the girl sleeping next to him, her long light brown hair spread over the pillow. Her face was delicate, fair skin with almost imperceptible freckles on her cheeks. Her parted lips released a slow, calm breath, indifferent to the inner chaos that pulsed within him.
Clara? Cassie? Camille? He didn't remember. But, this time, it bothered him.
He blinked, trying to gather scattered fragments of the night before. He vaguely remembered the music muffled by the noise of the pub, the easy smiles, and the way she laughed by throwing her head back. She had been kind. She had talked to him about something that seemed important at the time, but now escaped his memory. But, as always, it would be just another unimportant night.
The sharp, irritating sound of a crack filled the air, followed by a hoarse, dragging voice.
"Master Harry needs to wake up."
Harry closed his eyes, exhaling slowly.
"I'm already awake, Kreacher."
He sat up slowly, pressing his fingers against his temples in a futile attempt to relieve the pain. Kreacher watched him standing by the bed, his large gray eyes carrying the same silent judgment as always.
The elf crossed his arms.
"The Ministry sent an owl. Important. Very important."
Harry rubbed his face, feeling the roughness of his unshaven beard under his fingers. The sour smell of alcohol still permeated his mouth, mixed with the taste of something sweet that he didn't remember consuming.
Coffee.
He needed coffee before he could even think about dealing with any Ministry business.
"Is the coffee ready?" he murmured, his voice scratching his dry throat.
Kreacher rolled his eyes in a way that made it clear he was already expecting that question.
"Master Harry always asks that."
"And you always bring it."
With a dry snap, Kreacher disappeared. Seconds later, he returned with a steaming cup between his thin fingers. The strong, bitter smell filled the air, and Harry took the cup with silent gratitude.
The first sip burned his throat, but awakened his mind from the fog of the hangover. He took a second sip, longer, feeling the caffeine slowly restore his ability to function.
Only then did he notice the brown envelope on the bedside table. Even before opening it, he knew it wasn't good news. The Ministry rarely sent letters at six in the morning unless something was very wrong.
Breaking the seal, Harry glanced over the first few lines, the familiar handwriting of the Minister of Magic himself giving him an uncomfortable sense of urgency.
"Harry, we need you. A murder occurred at St. Mungo's early this morning. The victim is Edgar Selwyn."
The name awakened memories he'd rather keep buried.
Edgar Selwyn. One of the former Death Eaters who escaped from Azkaban through the loopholes of bureaucracy, claiming innocence. He had hidden behind flimsy excuses, memorized speeches about repentance and redemption, while opening a rare potion ingredients business.
Now he was dead.
Harry took a deep drag of the cigarette he was holding, releasing the smoke slowly as he stared at the letter for a few more seconds. The promotion was supposed to be a new beginning. That's what they said. That's how Kingsley presented it to him: a recognition of his skills, a sign that the Ministry trusted him to handle the most difficult cases. But the truth was that he felt nothing but the growing weight of responsibility.
The previous role, bureaucratic and unnecessary, at least kept him invisible. Now, they expected him to solve murders. Delicate cases, where politics intertwined with morality, where the names of the victims carried a past that no one wanted to relive.
And now, Selwyn.
Harry knew what would come next. Suspicious looks. Half answers. Hidden documents. If Kingsley put him on this, it was because something was already wrong.
A soft voice sounded behind him.
"Come back to bed."
He turned slightly, seeing the girl stretch lazily, her thin arms stretching above her head as her brown eyes blinked sleepily.
This time, he looked at her properly. He tried to remember her name. He couldn't. But she was still smiling, even sleepy. As if the night had been a moment of fleeting happiness. He felt an uncomfortable twinge in his chest.
"I have to go."
She sighed, rolling back to the pillow.
"Do you always have to leave?"
This time, Harry hesitated. For a moment, a part of him wanted to lie. Say no. That he could stay. But he wasn't that kind of man. Not anymore.
"Always."
She watched him for a moment before nodding slowly, a tired smile playing on her lips.
"Then I hope it was a good night."
Harry gave something resembling a smile.
"It was."
Kreacher appeared beside the bed, arms crossed.
"Kreacher can show the young lady where the exit is."
She looked at him sideways, pursing her lips for a moment before getting up, gathering her clothes scattered on the floor. Harry didn't look as she dressed. He just took another drag of the cigarette, watching the smoke dance in the air before dissipating.
The door closed behind her with a soft click. Her perfume still lingered in the air. The bed was messy. One side warm, the other cold. He took another drag of the cigarette, watching the smoke dance in the air before disappearing. Another night. Another unknown face. The silence returned, and this time it didn't go away.
He finished the coffee, feeling the bitterness mix with the taste of tobacco. The day had barely begun, and he already wanted it to end.
The Ministry of Magic was always the same.
The grand, gleaming marble entrance, the wizards walking hurriedly with stacks of parchment floating beside them, the whispers between departments mixing with the sound of teapots serving themselves on the receptionists' counters. The polished floor reflected the quick steps of employees who moved like pieces of a well-adjusted clock.
Harry hated that place.
It was too early to be there. Work officially started at eight, but he arrived before the conventional time. He could have given himself more time to recover from the hangover, slept a little more, but staying at Grimmauld Place was not an option. Even more so with the urgent message from the Minister.
There, his mind was restless, spinning in dangerous spirals of thoughts he preferred to avoid. The silence of that house was cruel, filled with memories that never ceased to haunt him. At the Ministry, at least there was movement.
He walked up the main atrium and waved absently to the receptionist, who responded with a rehearsed smile, her eyes shining when she saw him.
He knew that look.
He had seen it countless times over the years - admiration mixed with curiosity, as if he were a rare artifact displayed in a museum.
That's how the Ministry had treated him since the war ended.
When he joined the Auror Department, the expectation was that he would become a great hunter of dark wizards, a living symbol of magical justice. But, in practice, he was just a decorative trophy. The first years were a parade of uselessness. He participated in endless meetings, signed meaningless papers, reviewed reports from veteran Aurors who actually did something useful. A famous name on the payroll. A convenient reminder that the Ministry was now different.
It was all a lie.
The bureaucracy consumed him, and he remained there, watching time pass without purpose, accepting that his work was a joke. Now, he was dealing with real cases. Murders, occult investigations, the shadows of the Ministry that no one wanted to face.
And Selwyn was one of those cases.
When he crossed the main corridor on the second floor, he saw her.
Hermione.
She was surrounded by two older wizards, an open roll of parchment in her hands, explaining something with her usual precision. Her dark brown hair was tied in a hasty bun, and she wore a silver brooch with the emblem of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.
Harry slowed down. Her eyes met his for a brief moment. It was quick - a fraction of a second, but enough for him to see the surprise, followed by the brief, hesitant smile that didn't reach her eyes. He should go to her. Say something. But the years between them were like an abyss. Especially since he walked away. By his own choice, he disappeared.
The dinners at Grimmauld Place became less and less frequent, the letters became sporadic. Ron and Hermione tried to keep in touch, but he never responded with the same enthusiasm. He didn't have the energy to keep pretending he was the same as before.
Her smile disappeared when he broke eye contact and went on his way.
When he arrived at his new room, he found the space strangely empty.
There was no decoration other than the dark wooden table and a shelf with worn files, many of them listing old crimes that were never solved. No windows, only the cold lighting of the torches attached to the walls.
Harry left his Auror cloak on the back of the chair and sat down, massaging his temples.
He saw himself reflected on the polished surface of the table. He was finished.
The thin, pale face, the deep dark circles, the always disheveled hair looking even more messy than usual. The scar on his forehead was almost irrelevant now. Time didn't erase it, but other marks began to attract more attention - the lines of exhaustion on his face, the eyes that always seemed half-closed, as if they were getting used to the darkness.
He took a cigarette, lit it with an automatic gesture of his wand and pulled the stack of parchments he had brought with him.
He needed to concentrate. But then, the door opened.
Kingsley Shacklebolt entered without ceremony.
The Minister of Magic was always an imposing man, even after so many years in office. Tall, dark-skinned, and his shaved head gleaming under the flickering light of the room, his presence carried a weight that few could ignore.
Harry didn't bother to get up. He just took a drag on the cigarette, exhaling slowly.
"Good morning, Harry."
"That's debatable."
Kingsley didn't smile. He never smiled when he brought bad news. Without waiting for an invitation, he sat in the chair in front of the table and threw a brown envelope on the wood.
"This is the report on the murder of Edgar Selwyn."
Harry took the envelope and opened it, his eyes immediately falling on the first page.
Investigation Report - Auror Department
Victim: Edgar Selwyn
Location: St. Mungo's Hospital - Magical Accidents Ward
Time of death: Approximately 3:45 am
Cause of death: Inconclusive
Harry frowned.
"Inconclusive?"
Kingsley leaned back in his chair.
"There are no signs of a curse. No marks on the body. No evidence of a lethal spell. He just... died."
Harry ran his hand over his chin, feeling the rough beard under his fingers.
"Is there anything about his last night?"
"Apparently, he had been reporting paranoia in recent weeks. He said he was being followed. That he was hearing whispers."
Harry raised an eyebrow.
"And no one thought that deserved attention before?"
Kingsley sighed.
"You know how these cases are treated. Former Death Eaters who escaped justice rarely receive sympathy."
Harry closed the report.
"Has anyone else been called in to investigate?"
"No. This case is yours."
He held the Minister's gaze for a few seconds. Something was wrong.
Unexplained cases were nothing new, but Harry knew Kingsley well enough to realize when he was holding back information.
"You think this is bigger than it looks, don't you?
Kingsley hesitated.
"I know something's not right. I don't trust the Auror Department. There are things that have never been revealed since the war. You understand that better than anyone."
Harry didn't respond immediately. He just took the unlit cigarette and spun it between his fingers, his eyes fixed on the report still open on the table. Kingsley watched him in silence, as if he knew he was processing more than just the information on paper.
The name Selwyn carried weight. Not as much as the big names of the war - Malfoy, Lestrange, Rookwood - but still, a reminder of a time that never really stayed behind. A name associated with death, torture, blind loyalty to Voldemort.
But that case wasn't about the past. It was about the present. And about what was yet to come.
Harry closed the envelope, tapping it lightly against the table.
"What else do you know?"
Kingsley crossed his arms, a hesitant glint in his dark eyes.
"I know there are things that are not in the report."
"Like what?"
Kingsley took a deep breath before answering.
"The Department of Mysteries requested access to the body before the autopsy was even completed."
Harry stopped spinning the cigarette.
"That's not protocol. Or very common."
"No, it's not."
A heavy silence hung between them. The Department of Mysteries didn't usually interfere in murder cases. Not without reason.
Harry took a deep breath and lit another cigarette. Harry felt a cold weight in his stomach. The Department of Mysteries. The only sector of the Ministry where secrets were more valuable than the truth. The only place where, usually, death was not the end - only the beginning of something worse.
"That means they know something they don't want to share."
Kingsley nodded.
"And that they want to hide something before you find out."
Harry slowly released the smoke, his thoughts delving into the implications of that revelation. The Ministry has always had secrets. Since before the First War, before Dumbledore, before anyone he knew. But Kingsley always tried to clean it up, always tried to make the institution less corrupt. And yet, the shadows were still there.
Harry rubbed his temple. What did Selwyn see?
"What do you want me to do?"
Kingsley leaned forward slightly, his voice lower, almost conspiratorial.
"Find out what really happened before they bury it."
Harry held the Minister's gaze.
"And if I find something you won't like?"
Kingsley hesitated.
"Then I hope you're honest enough to tell me."
Harry didn't answer. He just took another drag on the cigarette, feeling the nicotine mix with the bitter taste of the cold coffee.
"I'm going to St. Mungo's now."
Kingsley nodded.
"Be careful, Harry."
He got up and left the room, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts.
Harry picked up the brown envelope once more. The Department of Mysteries was involved. That meant this case wasn't just a murder. He put his coat over his shoulders and left, feeling the invisible weight of what he was about to discover.
The St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries was one of the places Harry liked to visit the least.
The walls were always impregnated with the sterile smell of healing potions, and the corridors echoed with muffled murmurs, the clinking of glass bottles, and the occasional moans of recovering patients.
When he appeared outside the window of the abandoned clothing store - the disguised entrance for Muggles - a wizard in a light green coat was already waiting for him. Tall and thin, the bony face and deep dark circles gave the man a look as exhausted as any other healer there.
"Auror Potter?"
Harry just nodded, taking a drag of his cigarette before putting it out with a quick flick of his wand.
"Dr. Fletcher." The healer extended his hand. Harry shook it quickly, feeling the cold skin.
"I'm in charge of the Magical Accidents ward, where Selwyn was admitted. I was asked to accompany you in your investigation."
"Do you have anything yet?" Harry asked as they both started walking down the main corridor.
Fletcher let out a tired sigh.
"Nothing. No apparent cause. The body had no marks, there were no signs of poisoning or curses." He paused before continuing. "The only unusual detail was his expression."
Harry nodded.
"Eyes open?"
"And the facial rigidity. As if he had died at the height of absolute terror."
The silence stretched between the two as they moved through the hospital.
The Magical Accidents ward was a maze of narrow corridors, lit by pale lanterns. It was still early, so the hospital was relatively quiet, except for the distant sound of healing spells being cast and a few muffled voices.
When they stopped in front of a weathered brass door, Fletcher raised his hand and touched the plaque.
Room 306 - Edgar Selwyn
"Has the body been removed?" Harry asked.
"Yes, about an hour ago."
Harry didn't answer. He just pushed the door and entered.
The room was small and impersonal. Nothing but an iron bed, a worn wooden wardrobe, a bedside table with an antique lamp. Everything perfectly normal. Too normal.
Harry drew his wand.
"Lumos Revelio."
The pale light danced across the surfaces, searching for traces of residual magic. Anything - a spell cast the night before, traces of enchantments or curses - should glow under the light.
Nothing.
He walked across the room, running his wand over the walls, the floor.
"Homenum Revelio."
The spell passed through the space silently, but there was no response. No hidden presence. Still, Harry felt the room was... too cold.
"Vestigia."
Another spell, this time searching for more subtle magical traces. A faint mist filled the room for a moment... but soon dissipated. No trace of dark magic. No obvious interference. Harry lowered his wand, his eyes narrowed. Something happened there. But they left no trace.
He turned to Fletcher.
"Were you here when they found the body?"
"Yes. I arrived in the morning to check on Selwyn and found him like this."
Harry crossed his arms.
"Was he alive at the last check?"
"He was asleep around midnight. No complaints, no strange behavior."
Harry frowned.
"Did anyone come to see him before he died?"
Fletcher shook his head.
"Not that I know of. Selwyn didn't have many visitors. The few who came were old customers from his shop, wizards interested in rare potions."
Harry ran his hand over his chin, thoughtful.
"And his symptoms? Can you tell me more about that?"
Before Fletcher could answer, the bedroom door opened.
"I can."
The voice was firm, professional, but with a touch of controlled coldness.
Harry turned and his eyes met Daphne Greengrass's.
She was wearing a healer's uniform - a light green tunic with a silver emblem embroidered on the chest. Her dark blonde hair was tied in a simple bun, and her blue-gray eyes rested on him with an indecipherable expression.
Harry hadn't seen Daphne Greengrass in years.
She closed the door behind her and crossed her arms.
"Are you in charge of the case?"
"It seems so."
She nodded once and then looked at Fletcher.
"Thank you, Alden. I'll take it from here." The healer hesitated, but nodded and left without arguing.
Harry watched Daphne for a moment. She had always had a reserved posture at Hogwarts. Apparently, the years only made her mask more impenetrable.
"Were you his healer?"
"For a time, yes. He went through several specialists, but in recent months I was responsible for the treatment."
Harry tilted his head slightly.
"And what do you know about him?"
"I'm not interested in most patients, Potter. Selwyn, however... he was different."
"Different how?"
Daphne hesitated, as if considering the best way to respond.
"He was terrified."
Harry frowned.
"Of what?"
She looked directly at him.
"Something he said was chasing him."
Harry felt a cold shiver down his neck.
"And what exactly did he say?"
Daphne looked away for a brief moment.
"That it was something invisible. Something that made no sound, but that he could feel.
Harry felt the unease grow."
"Was this recorded anywhere?"
"I left notes. But nobody took it seriously."
She looked at him again. This time, something in her eyes seemed different.
"Do you think he was right, Potter?"
Harry didn't answer immediately. The room still seemed cold. Colder than it should have been. He looked at her.
"If he was right... then he wasn't the only victim."
Daphne didn't answer. The silence dragged on between them, heavy, as if something invisible was hovering in the room. But then, Daphne took a deep breath and walked to the table where Selwyn used to leave his potions. She pulled out a clipboard with notes, flipped through a few pages quickly, and then stopped at a specific one. She turned the paper towards Harry and pointed to the writing.
"This was written a little over a month ago."
Harry read the words and felt his stomach churn.
"He's here."
"I close my eyes, but he keeps looking."
"He touches my skin without touching me."
"He said there's no use running."
This time, Harry didn't hold back the shiver. The cold in the room seemed more intense now, and it wasn't just his imagination. Harry felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, the invisible weight of a silence that shouldn't be there.
With an automatic movement, he put his hand in his coat pocket and pulled out a cigarette. Before he could bring it to his lips, Daphne turned, her eyes narrowing as she saw what he was about to do.
"Don't even try, Potter."
Harry blinked, raising an eyebrow at her.
"What?"
She crossed her arms, pointing to the cigarette with a subtle movement of her chin.
"This is a hospital."
Harry sighed heavily, turning the cigarette between his fingers before putting it back in his pocket.
"Great. One more thing that will kill me slowly."
"It's a long list, I imagine."
There was a flash of something that could have been humor in Daphne's eyes, but it disappeared as quickly as it appeared. She went back to flipping through the notes on the clipboard, as if pondering something.
Harry rested his hands on his hips, his gaze returning to the bed where Selwyn died.
"These sentences... did he say them to someone or write them alone?"
Daphne tilted her head slightly, her eyes gliding over the words once more.
"Some he whispered to himself. Others, I heard directly."
"And what did you think of that?"
Daphne closed the clipboard and looked at him.
"That he was terrified. And the worst part? I believed him."
Harry frowned.
"So why didn't anyone do anything?"
"Because wizarding medicine is like any other." She shrugged. "If a recovering patient starts raving, people assume it's a side effect of poisoning, old trauma... or simply a mind that was already compromised."
Harry leaned against the wall, rubbing his jaw with one hand.
"And you?"
"What about me?"
"If you believed him, why didn't you report it formally?"
Daphne narrowed her eyes slightly.
"You think I didn't try?"
Her tone was sharp but controlled. Harry realized he had touched on something that bothered her. She crossed her arms, taking a deep breath before continuing.
"I recorded everything. In the hospital notes, in the daily reports. But nobody cared, Potter. Selwyn was a former Death Eater. If he screamed that the Inferi were coming out of the ground to get him, you know what they'd say? 'Good luck to the Inferi.'"
Harry was silent for a moment. He understood. If there was one thing the Ministry did well, it was choosing who deserved to be saved and who didn't.
He licked his dry lips.
"When was the last time Selwyn said something unusual?"
Daphne thought for a moment before answering.
"Three nights ago."
The air in the room seemed to get heavier.
"And what did he say?"
Daphne looked away to the empty bed and murmured:
"'He's here.'"
Harry felt a shiver go up his spine. He put his hand in his pocket again, trying once more to get the cigarette, but stopped in the middle of the movement when Daphne let out an irritated sigh.
"Potter."
He raised his hands in surrender, but couldn't shake the knot that was forming in his stomach. If Selwyn was right, then he saw something that night. And that meant that, somehow, he wasn't alone when he died.
Harry studied Daphne for a moment, observing the meticulous way she leafed through the notes, her concentrated gaze and firm hands, as if she were carefully choosing her words before releasing them.
"When was the last time you saw Selwyn?"
She didn't take long to answer.
"During lunch yesterday."
Harry nodded, as if he was processing the information.
"And did he say anything out of the ordinary?"
Daphne shook her head, her tone impassive.
"Nothing out of the ordinary. He was restless, but he always was."
Harry crossed his arms, reflecting.
"So, he seemed the same as any other day?"
Daphne held his gaze before answering, without hesitation.
"Yes."
The answer was direct, clear. Objective. Harry made a small thoughtful noise with his throat.
"No unusual symptoms? No complaints about... whatever was terrorizing him?"
She denied again.
"No."
Harry exhaled slowly through his nose, processing the information. It wasn't exactly what he expected. If Selwyn was so paranoid, it was strange that he hadn't said anything just before he died. But, as far as he knew, Daphne was never blunt.
If she was hiding something, he would have noticed.
"Right." He scratched the back of his neck, feeling the growing tension in his shoulders.
She hadn't said anything unexpected. No new pieces to fit the puzzle. But then why did he feel like something was missing?
The silence of his office was comfortable. The kind of silence that allowed thoughts to unravel like loose threads, finding new connections in the tangle of information.
But it was also a heavy silence, laden with the yellowish glow of the torches attached to the walls and the smell of cold coffee and burnt tobacco that permeated the environment.
Harry took a drag on a cigarette, his eyes half-closed on the papers in front of him. The pieces didn't fit. He swirled the coffee cup between his fingers as he scanned Edgar Selwyn's scribbled words. The former Death Eater's notes seemed like a mixture of feverish daydreams and fragments of a paranoid delirium. But there was something there. Something that escaped the obvious.
"He's here."
"I close my eyes, but he keeps looking."
"He touches my skin without touching me."
"He said there's no use running."
Harry slowly exhaled the cigarette smoke, the words permeating his mind like ink stains on old paper. If Selwyn was paranoid, then who was he running from?
The witnesses said that he didn't receive frequent visits. The forensics didn't find any signs of active magic in the room. No detectable curse. No poisoning. No evidence of a physical attack. But Selwyn died with his eyes wide open, his face frozen in pure terror.
That meant he saw something.
Harry pulled the St. Mungo's reports and started searching through them again. There was something there that he hadn't noticed before. The employees' statements were monotonous, bureaucratic. Everyone said the same thing: patient in stable condition, occasionally disturbed by episodes of paranoia.
Then, he found a line that hadn't caught his attention before.
"The patient mentioned Adrian Rosier in a conversation with a nurse two weeks ago."
Harry frowned. The name stirred something in his memory, a distant echo of the past.
Rosier.
He took another drag, tasting the bitterness of the smoke mingling with the cold coffee. Evan Rosier. He vaguely remembered. One of the original Death Eaters, killed in the First Wizarding War. But Adrian Rosier? That name didn't ring a bell.
Selwyn mentioned this man. But why?
Harry pulled the hospital's internal records and started searching the names of patients who had been through St. Mungo's in recent years. The reports were extensive, a maze of irrelevant data, but he was already used to the slow pace of the investigation.
His eyes scanned each line with calculated precision. Part of him was already used to finding patterns where others saw only dust. And then, there it was.
Adrian Rosier - hospitalized five years ago.
The name shone like a flash in the middle of the darkness. Harry stopped.
His fingers slid across the parchment, devouring the information.
Admitted on May 2, 1998.
Condition: deep coma.
Reason for admission: severe injuries during the Battle of Hogwarts.
Harry narrowed his eyes. Rosier never woke up. Five years trapped in a vegetative state. No improvement, no sign of recovery. And yet, Selwyn spoke about him. A shiver crawled down Harry's spine.
He took another drag of the cigarette, his mind already working on the new possibilities.
If Adrian Rosier had been in a coma for five years... then how the hell could he be connected to Edgar Selwyn's death?
Harry closed the report and leaned back in his chair, letting the smoke rise slowly through the stagnant air of the room.
Something was wrong. Very wrong. And Harry knew that when the Ministry tried to bury something, it was because there was something big behind it. The Department of Mysteries was involved.
Kingsley mentioned it almost as a warning, a loose piece in the puzzle that now seemed more like a sign that he was entering dangerous territory. The Unspeakables requested access to the body before the autopsy was even completed.
That wasn't protocol.
They didn't interfere in ordinary cases. If they were interested, it meant they knew something no one else knew. Or worse. It meant they were trying to hide something.
Harry rested his elbows on the table, the cigarette burning between his fingers, as he stared at the name Adrian Rosier on the parchment.
This should be a dead end. A man in a coma doesn't murder anyone. But then why did Selwyn mention this name?
Harry took his wand and touched the tip to the St. Mungo's patient report.
"Revelio."
The ink on the parchment glowed slightly, but no new information appeared. He didn't expect there to be anything hidden there, but years of investigation had taught him that the Ministry hid much more than it revealed.
He closed the file and twirled the cigarette between his fingers, thoughtful.
The Battle of Hogwarts was five years ago. Five years since Voldemort's fall, since Rosier was found injured on the battlefield and never opened his eyes again. He wasn't listed as an active Death Eater, but his name carried the weight of the lineage. The Rosiers were always among the most loyal followers of darkness.
Harry pulled another document from his desk. The final forensic report on Selwyn. He quickly glanced over the details he already knew by heart. Body found the next morning, eyes open, no sign of a lethal spell. But then, something caught his attention. A small but important detail. Something he hadn't noticed before. A signature. The nurse in charge of the night shift had signed the report, a standard formality, repeated in dozens of similar cases. But right below her name, there was another.
Daphne Greengrass.
Harry stood still for a moment, his eyes fixed on the elegant and precise handwriting. She was there. The night Selwyn died.
The conversation they had a few hours ago seemed different now. Daphne mentioned that she treated Selwyn for a while, but she didn't say that she was one of the last people to see him alive.
Harry put out the cigarette in the ashtray, watching the ember die out amid the accumulated ashes.
He didn't like coincidences. With a quick flick of his wand, he conjured a new parchment and began to scribble his own notes.
Daphne Greengrass. Adrian Rosier. Edgar Selwyn.
What connected the three?
Then, he saw it.
"Patient Adrian Rosier - no response to magical stimuli. Condition remains unchanged. However, observations indicate that... vital signs vary slightly during the early morning, between 3 am and 4 am."
Harry felt a shiver go up his neck. Selwyn died at 3:45 am. Coincidence? Or something much worse?
The cigarette smoke hovered around him as he twirled the pen between his fingers, his eyes fixed on the words on the paper. He needed to go to St. Mungo's.
Quieting his thoughts, he took his wand and conjured a Patronus. The silvery glow took the form of an imposing deer, briefly illuminating the office before dissipating.
"Message for St. Mungo's. I want permission to access the coma patient ward. Name: Adrian Rosier."
The Patronus disappeared down the hall, carrying his message.
Harry put out the cigarette in the ashtray already overflowing with ashes and stood up, taking the coat thrown over the chair. He would go see Adrian Rosier. And find out if a man in a coma could be a murderer.
