Disclaimer: his story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
A/N Written for Grapes on FA, who listed this plot bunny.
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It was not right. They were wizard photographs and yet they did not move. They were supposed to move. They were supposed to be people smiling and laughing and clapping each other on the back. Wizard photographs were not supposed to look like this.
Harry Potter was at his desk, late at night. He'd been an Auror for eight years now. Hell, he'd fought in a war as a seventeen year old.
But these wizard photographs were something else.
Every one of them seemed to show more blood than could possibly be necessary. He'd remembered arriving at the scene. He never knew the human body could hold so much blood. And there were two of them.
He dropped the photographs down onto the desk, allowing himself time to regain his composure. It was getting late, and he knew that he should go home, but he wasn't going to give up on this case. Not when it was so personal.
He eventually decided that a five minute nap in the staff room would do him the world of good. Almost all of the Aurors would have gone home by now. Every now and again someone would get so involved in a case as to pull an all-nighter, but usually the only people here were the two or three junior Aurors who had pulled night duty. The staff room was empty when Harry arrived, and he lay himself down on one of the sofas nearest the door.
He tried to close his eyes, but he couldn't shake the memory of that scene again. It had to have been the work of wizards; he was sure of that. But why would wizards use such a brutal method when a simple Killing Curse could have dispatched with them and not left any mess behind?
And there was the question of what Ginny Weasley and Draco Malfoy had been doing together in the first place.
Harry forced his eyes shut again. Just a few hours ago he had looked at the broken body of the girl he had once loved...
Whilst the head had lay several feet away, in a wicker basket.
Oh, he would be lucky to ever sleep again.
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