The fog clung to Knockturn Alley, unwilling to relinquish its hold on the narrow, twisting passageways even as the first hints of dawn threatened the eastern sky. Moisture beaded on cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, creating a treacherous sheen that reflected the sputtering light from nearby shop windows. The street was quiet at this hour—the kind of quiet that felt unnatural in a place usually buzzing with unethical deals and furtive glances.
Mundungus Fletcher—former petty thief turned street sweeper as part of his Ministry rehabilitation program—shuffled along the alley, his enchanted broom moving half-heartedly across the stones. The fog parted reluctantly before him, revealing the ground in small patches that disappeared again once he'd passed. He hummed tunelessly, occasionally pausing to swig from a flask tucked into his ragged coat.
"Bloody miserable morning," he muttered, watching his breath form little clouds that mingled with the fog. "Bloody miserable job."
He rounded a corner, and the broom suddenly jerked in his hands, pulling him forward as if magnetized. Mundungus stumbled, cursing, before he suddenly froze as the fog thinned enough to reveal what lay ahead.
A man—or what had once been a man—lay sprawled across the cobblestones, his limbs twisted at angles that no living person could tolerate. His eyes were open, staring sightlessly upward, his mouth frozen in a silent scream. But it wasn't the unnatural posture or the terrified expression that made Mundungus drop his broom with a clatter. It was the silvery wisps that emanated from the corpse's ears, nose, and mouth—delicate threads of something that looked like neither gas nor liquid, hovering in the air like spectral seaweed swaying in an invisible current.
"Merlin's saggy bollocks," Mundungus whispered, taking an involuntary step backward. He'd seen enough dark magic in his time to know when something was very, very wrong. His immediate instinct—to turn and run, to pretend he'd never seen this—warred with the knowledge that his probation officer would have his hide if he abandoned his post.
With trembling fingers, he drew his wand—a Ministry-regulated one that only performed the most basic spells—and cast the emergency flare that would summon Magical Law Enforcement.
The red sparks shot skyward, piercing the fog with a hissing sound, and exploded into a bright crimson star that hovered above Knockturn Alley. Mundungus sank down onto a nearby doorstep, as far from the body as he could get while still technically remaining at the scene, and pulled his flask out again.
"Gonna need something stronger than this," he muttered, but drained it anyway.
-Break-
Harry Potter was already awake when the summons came. Sleep had become an elusive companion in the years since the Battle of Hogwarts—too many nightmares, too many faces that haunted him in the darkness. He'd taken to rising before dawn, nursing a cup of strong tea while reading case files at his small kitchen table in the flat he kept in London.
The flat itself was modestly furnished—nothing like the grandeur of Grimmauld Place, which he still couldn't bring himself to fully inhabit despite Kreacher's ongoing renovations. This two-bedroom in a quiet Muggle neighborhood felt more manageable, more anonymous. The walls were adorned with just a few moving photographs: his parents dancing in autumn leaves; himself with Ron and Hermione at Bill and Fleur's wedding and then their wedding; the original Order of the Phoenix; and the DA members, all smiling and waving at him from their frames.
He rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses and glanced at the clock—4:37 AM. Another night of fractured sleep and circular thoughts. The Dreamless Sleep Potion that Hermione regularly sent him sat unopened on his bedside table. Harry couldn't bring himself to use it regularly, feeling he somehow owed it to the dead to remember them, even in his nightmares.
His current case files were spread across the table—three suspected former Death Eaters whose trails had gone mysteriously cold. Robards had instructed him yesterday to archive them as "inactive," but something about the pattern of disappearances nagged at Harry's instincts. They weren't running; they were being hidden.
The magical parchment on his table suddenly glowed red, the words forming across its surface in an elegant script:
Incident reported: Knockturn Alley, section four. Possible suspicious death. First responder: Rehabilitation Program Worker #347 (Fletcher, M). Auror presence requested immediately.
"Dung," Harry muttered, setting down his tea with a frown. Mundungus had a talent for finding trouble—or more accurately, for trouble finding him.
The red glow from the parchment illuminated the small scar on the back of Harry's right hand—I must not tell lies—faded now but still visible. A permanent reminder of what happened when authority prioritized comfort over truth. He flexed his fingers unconsciously.
Harry stood and stretched, his tall frame having filled out somewhat since his school days, though he remained lean rather than bulky. At twenty-eight, his face had lost some of its boyishness, his jaw more defined and his eyes carrying a watchfulness that came from seeing too much, too young. The famous lightning scar on his forehead had faded to a thin, silvery line—still visible, but no longer the angry red it had been during Voldemort's rise.
"Accio robes," he said clearly, and his Auror uniform flew from the bedroom into his waiting hand. With practiced movements, he changed from his t-shirt and pajama bottoms into the official dark crimson robes. These weren't the formal Auror dress robes with their gold piping and stiff collars that he detested wearing at Ministry functions. These were the field robes—more practical, with numerous enchanted pockets and protective spells woven into the fabric.
As he dressed, Harry caught his reflection in the window. The young man who stared back at him still sometimes felt like a stranger—Auror Potter, the professional, not just Harry, the Boy Who Lived. The transition hadn't been easy. Some days, he still felt like he was playing a role rather than living his life.
Ron had left Auror training after a year to help George with the joke shop, a decision Harry understood completely. But sometimes, on mornings like this, Harry wondered if he'd made the right choice himself. He'd joined to make a difference, to ensure no dark wizard ever gained the power Voldemort had. Yet increasingly, he found himself battling Ministry bureaucracy as much as any dark magic.
His magical parchment glowed again, a new message appearing beneath the first:
Your partner has been notified.
Harry grimaced. Callum Davies would not be pleased about being dragged from his bed at this hour. The senior Auror valued his sleep almost as much as he valued protocol, and Harry had violated the latter often enough to make their partnership somewhat strained at times.
Davies had been assigned as Harry's mentor when Harry entered the Auror program—one of the few who treated him as a rookie who needed training rather than a hero who needed accommodating. Their relationship had been rocky at first, with Davies pushing Harry harder than any other trainee and showing zero tolerance for his tendency to work outside the system. But over time, a grudging respect had developed between them. Davies might be a stickler for rules, but he was also fair, brilliant at investigation, and utterly incorruptible—a rarity in the post-war Ministry.
Harry strapped on his dragonhide wand holster, feeling the comforting weight of the holly and phoenix feather wand as he slid it into place along his forearm. His fingers brushed against the mokeskin pouch that hung from his neck beneath his clothes—inside it, always with him, lay the broken pieces of the Elder Wand, wrapped in cloth and sealed with spells only he could break. Some secrets were too dangerous to leave at home, even with the extensive wards he'd placed on his flat.
He grabbed his leather messenger bag, enchanted with an Undetectable Extension Charm (courtesy of Hermione) and already containing his investigation kit—Self-Inking Quills, specialized detection instruments, evidence bags, and his worn leather notebook.
With a final glance around his flat, he focused on the Apparition coordinates for Knockturn Alley's designated arrival point, turned on the spot, and disappeared with a soft crack—leaving behind half a cup of tea that would be cold by the time he returned.
The first thing that hit him when he materialized in Knockturn Alley was the smell—a strange, metallic odor that hung in the fog, mingling with the usual dank mustiness of the narrow street. The second thing was the unnatural silence. Even at this early hour, there should have been some sounds—the scurrying of rats, perhaps, or the distant murmur of early risers in the connected Diagon Alley.
Harry instinctively drew his wand, holding it low at his side—a habit formed during the war that he'd never quite shed. His senses, honed by both training and necessity, cataloged his surroundings. The cobblestones beneath his feet were slick with morning dew. The shop windows around him were dark, many still boarded up years after Voldemort's defeat. Business had never fully returned to Knockturn Alley, and Harry wasn't sure it ever would. Too many dark wizards had frequented these shops, too many shady deals had gone down in these shadows.
He swept his wand in a subtle arc, performing a non-verbal detection spell for any immediate threats. Nothing registered—no hidden assailants, no active magical traps. Still, the prickling unease at the back of his neck persisted.
"Took you long enough," came a gruff voice from behind him.
Harry spun, wand raised before his brain had time to process the familiar voice, and he immediately lowered it. "Davies."
Callum Davies emerged from the fog, his heavy-set frame somehow moving with surprising grace for a man in his fifties. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly combed despite the early hour, and his Auror's uniform was impeccable—a stark contrast to Harry's perpetually rumpled appearance. The senior Auror's face was weathered, with deep lines around his eyes and mouth that spoke of both laughter and hardship in equal measure. A thin scar ran from his right temple to his jaw—a souvenir from the first war against Voldemort.
"Jumpy this morning, aren't we?" Davies commented, eyeing Harry's wand hand. "Still sleeping with that thing under your pillow?"
Harry sheathed his wand, slightly embarrassed. "Force of habit."
"A good habit for an Auror," Davies acknowledged, though his tone suggested he was referring to professional vigilance rather than the kind of hypervigilance that came from trauma. "But you need to work on your Apparition noise. I heard you coming from ten feet away."
"I just got the summons three minutes ago," Harry said defensively.
"And I got it four minutes ago and still beat you here." Davies raised a bushy eyebrow. "Were you doing that meditation nonsense again instead of sleeping? You look like something a kneazle dragged in."
Harry ran a hand through his unruly black hair, knowing it only made it worse. The meditation hadn't been 'nonsense'—it was actually a recommendation from the Mind Healer he'd reluctantly seen after the nightmares started affecting his work. Not that he'd tell Davies that. The older Auror belonged to the generation that believed mental health issues were something to be pushed through, not addressed.
"I was reviewing the Mulciber case," he said instead, falling into step beside Davies as they moved deeper into the alley. Their footsteps echoed softly off the close-set buildings, the sound quickly swallowed by the thick fog.
"That case is closed, Potter." Davies' tone held a warning.
"Not properly. We never found out who was supplying him with information about the safe houses. Someone with Ministry access was—"
"It's closed," Davies repeated firmly, stopping to face Harry directly. "Minister's orders. And between you and me, pushing it isn't going to win you any friends in the department. You've got enough of a reputation for going off-book without adding conspiracy theories about Ministry moles."
"It's not a theory if there's evidence," Harry insisted, keeping his voice low. "The leak had to come from someone with Level Four clearance or higher. That's a small pool, Davies."
"Let. It. Go." Davies punctuated each word with a poke to Harry's chest. Then his expression softened slightly. "Look, I know you're frustrated. We all are. The rebuilding process isn't perfect—nothing ever is. But sometimes, for the greater good, certain... compromises have to be made."
"Funny," Harry said coldly. "That's exactly what Dumbledore used to say. Right before something terrible happened that could have been prevented."
Davies sighed, clearly deciding to change tactics. "Focus on what's in front of you, Potter. One case at a time. Now, about this mess we're walking into." He lowered his voice. "Fletcher's involved, so expect a cock-up of magnificent proportions."
Harry hesitated for a moment before he nodded, allowing the subject to drop for now. Davies wasn't wrong about Mundungus, at least. "What's Fletcher doing as a first responder anyway? I thought his rehabilitation program had him cleaning Diagon Alley during business hours."
"Budget cuts," Davies replied sourly. "Ministry's stretched thin, so they've expanded the rehab work program. Got former petty criminals doing all sorts of minor municipal tasks now."
"Let me guess—Malfoy and his father are somehow exempt?"
Davies snorted. "Lucius is still in Azkaban, albeit in the minimum security wing. And young Malfoy..." He shrugged. "Word is he's been cooperative. Handed over a lot of information about Death Eater finances. Besides, his mother did save your life. That counts for something, even in bureaucracy."
Harry fell silent at the mention of Narcissa Malfoy. Her lie to Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest had indeed saved his life, but the complicated tangle of debts, gratitudes, and lingering resentments regarding the Malfoy family was something he preferred not to dwell on.
"Any details on what we're walking into?" Harry asked, deliberately changing the subject as they navigated the twisting alley.
They rounded the corner and immediately stopped. The fog had begun to lift slightly, providing better visibility of the grim tableau before them. Mundungus sat huddled on a doorstep some distance away, rocking slightly. Two junior officers from Magical Law Enforcement had already set up a perimeter with shimmering containment spells that repelled curious onlookers and kept the evidence undisturbed.
But it was the body that commanded attention—and the strange, silvery wisps that continued to rise from it, catching the first weak rays of sunlight and refracting them into eerie, shifting patterns.
"Well, that's new," Davies muttered, his professional demeanor momentarily slipping.
Harry moved forward, nodding to the aurors as he ducked under the magical barrier. The silvery strands reminded him uncomfortably of memories extracted for a Pensieve, but these were different—wilder somehow, less contained, dissipating slowly into the air like smoke from a snuffed candle.
"Anyone touch anything?" he asked the nearest auror, a young witch with a nervous expression.
"No, sir, Mr. Potter—I mean, Auror Potter," she stammered. "We secured the scene immediately upon arrival, per protocol."
"And Fletcher?"
"Says he found the body while sweeping, activated his emergency signal, and hasn't moved from that step since."
Harry nodded. "Good. Keep it that way until Magical Forensics arrives." He turned to examine the victim without disturbing the scene.
The man appeared to be in his mid-thirties, dressed in modest but well-maintained Ministry robes. His face was frozen in an expression of abject terror, pale blue eyes bulging and mouth stretched in a silent scream. There were no visible wounds, no signs of blood or struggle, yet his limbs were contorted as if he'd suffered violent convulsions before death.
"Recognize him?" Davies asked, crouching beside Harry.
Harry shook his head. "No. Mid-level Ministry worker by the looks of his robes. What's he doing in Knockturn Alley at this hour?"
"Nothing good," Davies said grimly. "And that's not a natural death. Those silver wisps..." He trailed off, studying them with a frown. "Reminds me of something from the first war, but I can't place it."
Harry moved carefully around the body, his trained eyes scanning the surrounding area. The cobblestones were wet with dew and fog moisture, but something near the victim's outstretched hand caught his attention—a slightly different sheen, a subtle darkness against the gray stone.
He leaned closer, illuminating the area with a silent Lumos. What he had first taken for a shadow or a water stain revealed itself to be a small, intricate symbol etched into the stone. It appeared to be drawn in a dark substance that looked disturbingly like dried blood.
"Davies," he called softly. "Take a look at this."
The senior Auror moved to his side, his eyes narrowing as he spotted the marking. "That's a rune," he said. "Old magic."
Harry carefully brought his wand closer to the symbol. As the wandlight approached within an inch of the marking, the rune suddenly emitted a faint blue glow, pulsing once before fading back to darkness.
"It's still active," Harry murmured. "Whatever spell was cast here, it hasn't fully dissipated."
"Don't touch it," Davies warned unnecessarily. "Let the specialists handle this. Last thing we need is you getting your brain scrambled by some dark artifact."
Harry was about to respond when multiple soft pops announced new arrivals. The Magical Forensics team had arrived, led by a tall, thin witch with prematurely gray hair pulled into a severe bun. Behind them came a figure Harry recognized immediately—the broad-shouldered, imposing form of Gawain Robards, Head of the Auror Office.
"Report," Robards barked as he approached, his eyes darting from the body to Harry and Davies, then to the gathering crowd being held back by the aurors.
Davies straightened and gave a succinct overview of what they'd found. Harry noticed Robards' expression tighten when Davies mentioned the mysterious silver wisps, which were now becoming fainter as dawn strengthened.
"Identity of the victim?" Robards asked.
"Not confirmed yet, sir," Harry answered. "But there's something else you should see." He indicated the rune on the cobblestone.
Robards approached, crouching to examine the marking. When Harry brought his wand near, causing the rune to glow faintly blue, a flash of what looked like recognition—and concern—crossed the Head Auror's face.
"Sir?" Harry prompted when Robards remained silent.
Robards stood abruptly, brushing off his robes. "This case is now classified," he announced. "Level Three security clearance only."
Harry and Davies exchanged glances. Level Three meant limited personnel, minimal documentation, and direct reporting to Robards himself.
"Sir," Harry said carefully, "this appears to be a highly unusual magical attack. Given the location and the apparent use of dark magic, wouldn't it be prudent to bring in more resources? Perhaps someone from the Department of Mysteries to examine this rune—"
"Potter," Robards cut him off sharply, "I don't recall asking for your strategic input. This case will be handled with discretion." He lowered his voice. "The last thing the Ministry needs is panic over some new dark wizard rising while we're still rebuilding."
Harry felt a familiar frustration rising in his chest. Ten years after Voldemort's defeat, the Ministry's primary concern still seemed to be appearances rather than truth. "With all due respect, sir, hiding things didn't work out so well last time."
Davies shot him a warning look, but Robards merely fixed Harry with a cold stare.
"Your concern is noted, Auror Potter. Now do your job according to protocol." He turned to the forensics team. "I want preliminary findings within the hour, and nothing leaves this scene without my direct approval."
As Robards moved away to speak with the senior forensic witch, Davies grabbed Harry's arm and pulled him aside.
"What are you playing at?" he hissed. "Challenging Robards at a crime scene?"
"You saw how he reacted to that rune," Harry said quietly. "He recognized it."
Davies glanced over at Robards, his expression thoughtful. "Maybe. But pushing him won't get answers. Play it smart, Potter. Follow the evidence where it leads, but don't go making accusations without proof. I didn't spend the last two years mentoring you just to watch you throw your career away on hunches."
Harry took a breath, knowing Davies was right about the approach, if not the principle. "Fine. But I'm still documenting everything."
"Wouldn't expect anything less," Davies replied with a hint of approval. "Now, let's see if we can get an ID on our victim before the body's moved."
They returned to the corpse, where forensics technicians were now carefully collecting samples of the silver wisps in special containment vials. Harry knelt down and began the standard examination, checking for identification while being careful not to disturb the position of the body.
"Inside pocket," he murmured, spotting the edge of what appeared to be a leather wallet. Using his wand to gently levitate the item out of the pocket, he caught it in his gloved hand and opened it.
"Ellis Travers," Harry read from the Ministry identification card inside. "Department of Magical Child Welfare." He looked up at Davies. "That's a new department, isn't it?"
Davies nodded. "Established after the war. Deals with magical orphans, children from families affected by the conflict. Lots of kids lost parents or had Death Eater relatives carted off to Azkaban."
Harry felt a twinge of empathy, thinking of his own orphaned childhood and the many children who'd suffered similar fates because of Voldemort. He continued examining the wallet's contents: a few Galleons, a receipt from the Leaky Cauldron dated yesterday evening, and a small card that slipped out when he tilted the wallet.
The card was simple—white with a lime-green border that Harry recognized as the St. Mungo's color scheme. In neat script, it read:
Ellis Travers
Appointment: St. Mungo's Hospital, 6th Floor
Psychological Healing Ward
Tuesday, 3 PM
"St. Mungo's has a sixth floor now?" Harry asked, showing the card to Davies.
The older Auror frowned. "Must be new. Last I knew, they stopped at five—the Visitor's Tea Room."
Harry pocketed the appointment card, making a mental note to follow up on it. As he continued his search, he felt a sudden prickling sensation at the back of his neck—the unmistakable feeling of being watched. He turned sharply, scanning the surrounding buildings and alleyways.
For the briefest moment, he caught a glimpse of a figure in a dark cloak standing in the shadows of a recessed doorway about thirty yards down the alley. Before Harry could get a clear look, the figure melted back into the darkness.
"Davies," Harry said urgently, "someone's watching us from that doorway."
Both Aurors drew their wands, moving quickly toward the spot Harry had indicated. They reached the recessed entrance to what appeared to be an abandoned shop, its windows boarded up and door secured with multiple locks.
"Homenum Revelio," Davies cast, but the spell revealed no hidden presence.
"They were just here," Harry insisted. "Dark cloak, average height. Couldn't see their face."
Davies performed several more detection spells, but found nothing. "If someone was here, they're gone now. Might have apparated once they realized you'd spotted them."
Harry stared at the empty doorway, unable to shake the feeling that whoever had been watching knew more about this death than they did.
"We should get back," Davies said. "Can't leave the scene unattended."
When they returned, the forensics team was preparing to transport the body. Robards stood with his arms crossed, deep in conversation with the gray-haired witch who led the team.
"—most unusual magical signature," she was saying. "The residual energy suggests an incredibly powerful extraction spell, far beyond anything standardly used for memory retrieval."
"Can you determine cause of death?" Robards asked.
The witch hesitated, glancing at the body. "Preliminarily, I would say the victim died from catastrophic magical trauma to the neural pathways. In layman's terms, something ripped through his mind with such force that it caused complete neurological collapse."
Harry felt a chill that had nothing to do with the morning air. "Are you saying his memories were forcibly extracted?" he asked, joining the conversation.
The forensic witch—whose name badge identified her as Madam Eliza Fawley—turned to Harry with a professional nod of acknowledgment. Unlike many in the Ministry, she didn't display that momentary widening of the eyes or flick of the gaze to his forehead that Harry had come to both expect and detest.
"Not just extracted, Auror Potter. Violated. The typical memory extraction for a Pensieve is gentle—it removes a copy while leaving the original intact. This..." She gestured to the now-fading wisps. "This looks like someone tore the memories directly from his mind, destroying the originals in the process."
"Would the victim have been conscious during... during the extraction?" Harry asked, trying to maintain professional detachment while contemplating the horror of such a death.
"Unfortunately, yes," Madam Fawley replied, her clinical tone belied by the tightness around her eyes. "Based on the contortion of the limbs and facial muscles, I'd say he was fully aware until the very end. The process would have been..." She paused, searching for an appropriate word. "Excruciating."
"And targeted," Davies added, studying the body. "Look at the precision. This wasn't some botched memory charm or general assault. Whoever did this was after specific memories."
"Which means they likely got exactly what they came for," Harry concluded grimly.
"I haven't seen anything like this since..." Madam Fawley began, then glanced at Robards with sudden hesitation.
"Since the first war," Robards finished for her, his tone flat. "It was a specialized technique used by a particular group of Voldemort's followers. The Department of Mysteries studied it extensively afterward." His gaze shifted to Harry. "Most of those Death Eaters are dead or in Azkaban now."
"Most," Harry repeated pointedly. "But not all."
Robards' expression hardened. "That will be all for now, Madam Fawley. I expect your full report by noon—classified Level Three."
"Sir," she replied with a professional nod, though Harry noted the slight furrow of her brow—she too, it seemed, had reservations about the classification level. She hesitated, then added, "There is one more thing you should know. The magical signature itself is... unusual."
"Unusual how?" Harry asked before Robards could dismiss her.
"Most magical attacks, even dark ones, carry traces of the attacker's magical signature—like a fingerprint, of sorts. This one..." She frowned. "It's almost as if it's been deliberately obscured, or..."
"Or what?" Davies prompted.
"Or it's not entirely human," she finished quietly.
The moment of terse silence that ensued was broken by Robards who turned to her and said curtly, "That will be all for now."
She nodded, clearly understanding the directive, and returned to supervising the removal of the body.
Robards turned to Harry and Davies. "I'm assigning you both to this case, but I want absolute discretion. No discussing details with other departments, no unauthorized investigations. You report directly to me."
"Sir," Harry said, choosing his words carefully. "Ellis Travers worked in Magical Child Welfare. That might be relevant to why he was targeted."
"Follow that angle," Robards agreed. "But quietly. The Ministry's reputation is finally recovering after the war. Mass panic over some new dark threat would undo years of progress."
"And if there is a new threat?" Harry pressed.
Robards' expression hardened. "Then we deal with it internally, without sending the public running for the hills. Is that clear, Auror Potter?"
"Crystal, sir."
"Good. I want daily reports, starting this evening." With that, Robards turned and strode away, disappearing into the thinning fog with a swish of his heavy cloak.
Davies let out a low whistle once the Head Auror was out of earshot. "Well, he's in a state."
"He knows something about this," Harry said quietly. "That rune, the method of killing—he recognized both."
"Maybe," Davies conceded. "But he's also right about panic. The magical community is still fragile, Potter. PTSD doesn't just affect individuals; entire societies can suffer from it too."
Harry was silent for a moment, watching as the forensics team levitated Travers' sheet-covered body into a special transport container. "I understand caution," he finally said. "But people deserve the truth, especially if they might be in danger."
"Noble as always," Davies said, not unkindly. "Look, let's do this by the book—for now. Check Travers' background, speak to his colleagues at Child Welfare, find out why he was in Knockturn Alley at dawn. But..." He hesitated, then added more quietly, "Keep notes. Separate from the official file."
Harry looked at his partner in surprise. Davies had always been a stickler for rules.
The older Auror shrugged. "I've been around long enough to know when something doesn't add up. Just don't make me regret trusting your instincts."
"Thank you," Harry said simply.
As the scene began to clear, Harry pulled out his battered leather notebook and carefully sketched the rune he'd seen on the cobblestone before it was collected as evidence. The symbol was strange—angular yet flowing, like something ancient translated through a more modern hand. As he drew, he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd seen it somewhere before, perhaps in one of the books Hermione had made him study during their hunt for Horcruxes.
The notebook had been a gift from Hermione when he'd completed Auror training—"For clues, not doodles," she'd written on the first page, knowing full well Harry's tendency to scribble in margins. The specially treated pages were resistant to water, fire, and most common damaging spells. It had proved invaluable over the past year and a half of field work. He'd need to remember to thank her again when they met for their regular Sunday dinner at the Burrow.
Harry finished his sketch, then added notes about the crime scene—the position of the body, the strange metallic smell in the air, the witness account (such as it was) from Mundungus, and the eerie feeling of being watched. Details mattered in investigation; Davies had drilled that into him repeatedly during training. "The solution is always there if you know what to look for," the senior Auror often said. "Most people just don't observe properly."
"Potter," a gruff voice interrupted his thoughts. Mundungus Fletcher shuffled toward him, looking even more disheveled than usual. The former thief kept glancing nervously at the body, now being prepared for transport. "Can I go now? Done my civic duty, haven't I? Reported the... you know." He gestured vaguely at the corpse.
Harry studied the man's face. Despite his usual shifty demeanor, Mundungus seemed genuinely disturbed by what he'd found. His normally ruddy complexion was pale, and his hands trembled slightly as he fidgeted with the frayed cuff of his jacket.
"In a minute, Dung. I need to ask you a few questions first." Harry flipped to a fresh page in his notebook. "Exact time you found the body?"
"'Bout quarter past four, I reckon. Just started me route."
"See anyone else in the area? Anyone at all, even from a distance?"
Mundungus shook his head emphatically. "Not a soul. Place was dead quiet—er, no offense." He cast another nervous glance toward the body.
"Did you touch anything? Move anything?"
"'Course not!" Mundungus looked affronted. "I know better'n that. Been questioned by enough Aurors in my time to know the drill, haven't I?"
Harry suppressed a smile. "Fair point. One last thing—did you notice anything unusual? Anything at all, no matter how small or strange it might seem."
Mundungus scratched his stubbled chin thoughtfully. "Well... there was something. Probably nothing, mind you, but..." He leaned closer to Harry, lowering his voice. "The fog. Seemed... wrong, somehow."
"Wrong how?"
"Thicker around the... around him." He nodded toward the victim. "Like it was gathering there. And colder, too. Reminded me of..." He trailed off, shuddering.
"Reminded you of what?" Harry pressed.
"Them Dementors," Mundungus whispered, glancing around as if afraid of being overheard. "Not saying there were any!" he added hastily. "Just... that same sort of feeling. Like something feeding, you know?"
Harry felt his skin prickle. Mundungus might be many things—a thief, a coward, a drunkard—but he wasn't prone to fanciful descriptions. If he said something felt wrong about the fog, it was worth noting.
"Thanks, Dung. You can go. But stay available in case we have more questions."
Mundungus nodded eagerly and shuffled away, clearly relieved to put distance between himself and the crime scene.
Harry made a note of the conversation, underlining the part about the fog. It might be nothing—just the fearful impression of a man who'd stumbled across a ghastly scene—but it connected oddly with Madam Fawley's comment about the "not entirely human" magical signature.
"Potter!" called one of the forensic assistants, a young wizard Harry recognized from previous cases—Timothy Selwyn, recently graduated from the training program. "We've confirmed preliminary findings on cause of death."
Harry approached, tucking his notebook away. "Go on, Selwyn."
"The victim died from having memories forcibly extracted," the young wizard said, looking slightly ill. His gaze kept drifting to the body then jerking away, the typical reaction of someone still new to the grislier aspects of magical law enforcement. "The process literally tore his mind apart from the inside. Death would have been..." He swallowed. "Not instantaneous. And likely extremely painful."
"Any indication of what specific memories might have been targeted?" Harry asked.
Selwyn shook his head. "No way to tell now. Whatever was taken is gone completely—not just copied, but ripped out entirely. Never seen anything like it." He hesitated, then added in a lower voice, "There's something else, though. Something odd about the magical residue. It's... fluctuating."
"Fluctuating?"
"Usually, magical signatures fade steadily over time. This one is... pulsing. Like it's being maintained somehow." Selwyn glanced around nervously. "Madam Fawley said not to mention it in the official report, but I thought you should know."
Harry frowned. "Why would she want that kept out of the report?"
"Orders from above, apparently." Selwyn's expression made it clear that 'above' meant Robards or possibly even higher.
"Thank you for telling me," Harry said quietly. "I'll look into it."
Selwyn nodded, then returned to his work, shoulders hunched as if expecting some sort of reprimand. Harry watched him go, adding another mental note to the growing list of inconsistencies surrounding this case. Information being deliberately omitted from official reports was never a good sign—especially when it concerned unusual magical signatures at a murder scene.
"Thank you," Harry said grimly. "Make sure everything you've found is documented thoroughly, even if it doesn't make the final report."
As the last of the forensics team departed with their evidence and the body, Harry stood alone in the alley, now illuminated by proper daylight that made the scene look deceptively ordinary—just another narrow street in a questionable part of magical London.
Davies approached, pulling on his traveling cloak. "Heading back to the office to start the paperwork. You coming?"
Harry hesitated, thinking of the appointment card in his pocket. "I think I'll follow up on a lead first."
Davies gave him a searching look. "The St. Mungo's connection?"
"Just want to see if his healer might know anything relevant," Harry said, trying to sound casual.
"Robards wants us moving through official channels, Potter."
"And we will," Harry assured him. "But there's no harm in a preliminary inquiry while the trail's still fresh."
Davies sighed, clearly recognizing the determined set of Harry's jaw. "Fine. But don't antagonize anyone, and for Merlin's sake, be subtle. I'll cover for you at the morning briefing."
"I owe you one."
"You owe me about fifty at this point," Davies retorted, but there was a hint of fondness beneath his gruff exterior. "Be back by noon with something useful, or I'll tell Robards you've gone rogue again."
"Again? When have I ever gone rogue?" Harry asked with mock innocence.
Davies just snorted and walked away, leaving Harry alone in the alley. He pulled out the appointment card once more, studying it thoughtfully. St. Mungo's Psychological Healing Ward. A relatively new addition to the hospital, created to address the mental trauma left by the war. What had driven a Ministry official working with orphaned and vulnerable children to seek psychological healing? And what connection, if any, did it have to his violent death?
Harry stared down at the rune he'd sketched in his notebook, certain he'd seen it somewhere before, but unable to place where. The symbol seemed to mock him from the page, a puzzle piece that belonged somewhere in the larger picture but refused to fit.
With one last look around the now-empty crime scene, Harry turned and walked toward the Apparition point, his decision made. St. Mungo's wasn't officially opening to visitors for another hour, but Harry knew from experience that the hospital never truly slept. And he wasn't above using his name—reluctantly—to gain access when needed.
Whatever Ellis Travers had been involved in had cost him his life in one of the most horrific ways Harry had encountered since the war. And despite Robards' insistence on discretion, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that this was just the beginning of something far darker than anyone at the Ministry was willing to acknowledge.
As he reached the Apparition point, he glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to see the mysterious figure in the shadowed doorway again. The alley remained empty, but the prickling sensation between his shoulder blades persisted. Someone was watching—perhaps not physically present, but watching nonetheless.
With a determined set to his jaw, Harry turned on the spot and disappeared with a soft pop, leaving behind Knockturn Alley and its secrets—for now.
TBC.
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