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Shadows in St Mungo's: Prologue
🕑 Added 2025-03-17 20:43:55 +0000 UTCThe darkness of St. Mungus was not just the absence of light. It was something alive, an invisible weight that crawled through the corridors and seeped into the bones, impregnated by the sterile smell of the potions and the restless murmur of the sick who never fully slept. The hospital never rested. But there was something else. Something silent, hidden among the ancient walls, like long-forgotten secrets, whispering in the darkness.
Edgar Selwyn awoke with a start. His chest heaved, his breath short, as if he had just emerged from a nightmare. But there was no dream this time. Just the silence.
Thick silence. Suffocating silence.
His eyes scanned the small hospital room, the familiar contours emerging under the dim light of the bedside lamp. Pale walls, slightly peeling at the top. A single window ajar, letting the cold wind sway the faded curtains. Beyond the open door, the corridor seemed empty. No nurse. No patient staggering for help. Just a silence too dead.
And Selwyn knew.
He always knew.
There was something there.
The invisible weight in the air was dense, expectant, like a predator waiting for the right moment to attack. He ran his tongue over his dry lips, tasting the metallic taste in his mouth. The poison that condemned him still ran in his veins, even after two years of treatment. Alden Fletcher, the healer in charge, insisted that he was getting better, that the worst had passed. But it was a lie. Selwyn knew. Something inside him had never been the same again.
He groped the bedside table, his trembling fingers finding the small glass bottle. The lid twisted with a soft snap, and he poured a few drops into his mouth. The liquid burned his throat, but it made no difference. The fear didn't come from pain. It came from the past.
He ran his hand over his sweaty, thin face, feeling the deep dark circles under his fingers. Since Voldemort's fall, he had convinced everyone - and himself - that he had escaped. Azkaban never received him. The Aurors never proved his guilt. He was just a merchant. A businessman. Someone who had made an error of judgment in siding with the Dark Lord.
But lies do not deceive one's own destiny.
And the shadows moved.
Selwyn blinked, his heart racing. Nothing there. Just the slight tremor of the curtains, the creak of the aged wood in the wind. But he felt it.
A presence. Invisible. Silent. Watching him.
He tried to reach for his wand. His fingers were icy.
3:42 a.m.
The same time the nightmares always started.
At first, they were just dreams—memories of a past he had forced himself to forget: bodies falling, the Dark Mark swirling in the sky, the empty gaze of victims petrified by terror. Then the dreams became clearer. Invisible hands on his shoulders. Whispers crawling through the darkness. Now, they were no longer just dreams.
A low sound cut through the silence.
Creak of hinges.
Selwyn stiffened.
The bedroom door was ajar, a small black space beyond the frame. The corridor, until then alive with the noises of the night, was dead. No movement. No voice.
Just emptiness.
Selwyn opened his mouth to call for someone. The voice didn't come out.
The air in the room became dense, heavy, pressing against his skin. The bedside lamp blinked once. Then another. Then it went out.
The silence became unbearable.
He tried to move, but he couldn't.
Then came the pain.
It went through his skull like red-hot nails piercing his flesh. His chest contracted, his lungs refusing to draw air. It wasn't a common spell. It wasn't a curse he'd ever felt before.
The pain grew.
Burned his veins.
Crushed his bones.
He tried to scream, but there was no air.
His fingers bent at impossible angles, the bones snapping like dry twigs. Something was inside him. Tears streamed down his face as his legs buckled on their own, his body being pulled back like a puppet cut from its strings.
His body fell against the mattress. Wide eyes stared at the dark ceiling.
Then he heard it.
A whisper.
Cold, distant, like a corpse exhaling its last word:
"No loose ends."
The clock next to the bed read 3:45 AM.
The morning brought with it the soft clinking of potion bottles, the muffled sound of hurried footsteps in the corridors and the low murmur of the nurses starting their routine at St. Mungus. The acrid smell of magical disinfectant hung in the air, mixed with the damp freshness of the dawn that still resisted, slipping through the open windows.
In the Magical Accidents ward, Healer Alden Fletcher adjusted his lab coat sleeves as he walked, a folded parchment in his hands and his mind already occupied with the day's patients. But something was different.
The hospital was... strange. The air seemed dense, heavy in a way he couldn't explain. It wasn't a noticeable change, but a creeping sensation at the base of his neck, a silent warning that the night had left something behind.
Edgar Selwyn was one of his patients on the list.
Fletcher never liked him.
There was no concrete reason. Selwyn was just another patient, a statistic. But whenever the healer looked into his eyes—pale, restless, sunken by tiredness and something else he couldn't name—he felt a discomfort crawl under his skin.
Maybe it was because he never slept well. Or maybe it was because Selwyn always seemed to be seeing something no one else was seeing.
Fletcher took a deep breath before knocking lightly on the door.
"Mr. Selwyn?"
No answer. Just silence.
He frowned.
At this hour, Selwyn would normally be awake, grumbling, asking for more potions, or insisting he'd heard a strange noise the night before.
He pushed the door slowly.
The room was cold. Too cold.
The kind of cold that didn't come from the weather, but from something... wrong.
The faint light from the torches danced on the pale walls, casting flickering shadows on the bed. For a moment, Fletcher hesitated. There was something about the silence in that room, something that made his breath catch in his chest.
Then he saw him.
Edgar Selwyn was lying on his back, motionless.
For a second, Fletcher almost called his name, sure he would stir. But then he saw the eyes.
Wide. Dry. Fixed.
The skin white and stretched, the lips parted in a scream that never came. The fingers of his left hand were tensed like claws, as if they had tried to grasp something invisible.
The bed was still made around him. The pillow sunken. The blanket folded neatly over his chest. He seemed to have died in his sleep.
But that was not a peaceful sleep.
Fletcher felt an icy shiver run up his spine.
He swallowed, his throat rough. This was not a heart attack. This was not a common organic failure. This was something else.
"Call the supervisors."
His voice came out low. Tense. Wrong.
The hospital reacted quickly. The nurses arrived within minutes, and the murmur in the corridors grew, spreading like an invisible poison.
