A/N: A murder mystery, yay! So this story is already posted and complete in AO3 - I will add it here, and edit a bit of the explicit scenes for FFnet standards. (so if you wish to read those (there's only a few, really), go to Ao3 and find the story under the same pen name ;) )

Chapter 1: The impossible cannot have happened

Ministry of Magic, 9 January 2022

"Alright there, sir?" Peele asks as he walks by Harry's office while pulling on his robes, finishing for the day. "Long day, eh?"

Peele is Harry's newest recruit in the Auror forces, a young lanky man, who has only just finished his training in the Academy. Harry reckons Peele is very promising, and reminds him of himself when he was younger. When everything was different.

Harry ceases to rub the bridge of his nose and lifts his head up to meet Peele's inquiring gaze with his own weary one. "Yeah, long day…" Harry mutters and pushes his glasses back to place. "Thought I came to rest here, but evidently I was wrong," he jokes feebly, and adds with a small smile, "kids went back to school today."

Peele chuckles at him, leaning against Harry's doorframe. "Rough holidays?"

Harry shrugs. "It was all right. But it's good to be back here," he says, and then grimaces at the stack of parchments scattered over his table. "Not to this, though. I was away for one week, and actually had problems locating my desk today from under all this."

Peele nods at him with a smile before taking a step back. "Tomorrow, then."

"Yeah," Harry murmurs, his eyes already flickering to the parchments. "Oh, Peele?" He says, remembering something from earlier.

Peele lifts his brows in question. "Sir?"

Harry smiles at him. "Good duelling today. Bones is a tough lady."

The corners of Peele's lips quirk up a bit. Harry thinks Peele was brilliant, truth to be told. Harry rarely watches his Aurors training drills due to his workload, but today, he made the exception.

"Thank you, sir," Peele says modestly.

"All right, then. Get out of here, before you get too smug for your own good," Harry says good-naturedly.

Peele laughs and nods at him before he takes his leave.

Harry lets out a weary sigh and leans back in his chair, checking his dented old watch that had once belonged to Fabian Prewett. Seven-thirty. He wonders if the kids have already arrived to the Great Hall for the welcome feast. He makes a mental note to write to James the next day, to inquire if anyone has yet contacted him after the Quidditch trials he participated earlier that week.

Harry has mixed feelings of his eldest's career choices. While he is thrilled that James aspires to be a professional Quidditch player like his mother was, he also thinks that James might be wasting his talents on other areas for a handful of years in Quidditch. Harry knows James is very bright and his grades are outstanding, even with all the mischief he has been up to during the school years. Harry thinks James could do almost anything after Hogwarts.

And perhaps that is why he dislikes his son's choices. They remind him of what he didn't have. And they also remind him how James is truly his mother's son.

Ginny.

Harry chews the inside of his cheek in thought. They really need to tell their children about their separation. They planned to, during the holidays, if not for Ginny's unanticipated business trip that conveniently took place right after Christmas and is still continuing. And Harry wasn't going to do it alone, certainly not. But the fact remains that he and Ginny haven't been living together for quite some time and haven't been a couple for even longer.

Ginny even has a new boyfriend – and that is really the only term for the bloke, Harry thinks; a bloke who is in his early thirties – Mark. Mark is a French Wizarding Genealogist. Harry had to look that up from the Ministry library, since he wasn't aware wizards had such professions. Apparently, Wizarding Genealogists trace and keep records of a family lineage in the Ministry of Magic Records Room. Only, Mark is employed by the British Ministry of Magic, keeping records of the British wizards and witches who have French ancestry. Harry remains that that is the most boring job he has ever heard of.

He has come terms with it – his eventual divorce from Ginny. He knows they tried to fix things for a long time, and he also knows that there were no villains in their story – at least not the kind that tried to break up their marriage. They succeeded doing that by themselves; by throwing themselves into work, into their careers, into their children, and at the same time forgetting their relationship. They had many good years together and Harry knows he will cherish those memories. Along with the bad ones.

He lets out another sigh, knowing that there is no use to continue sorting out his mess of a desk when he is feeling so tired. Standing up, Harry stretches his back and briefly wonders if he remembered to eat lunch during the day. Based on the growling sound in his stomach, he thinks not.

He walks to his coat rack and sees his reflection from the window beside it. He's in a desperate need of a haircut. And a shave, Harry adds to himself in his mind as he scratches his holiday beard. Ginny used to cut his hair, and now that she hasn't, Harry has let it grow to his shoulders. He keeps it tied back in a bun at the nape of his neck. Something his fourteen-year-old daughter teasingly calls a 'man bun'. Harry snorts inwardly as he thinks about her; the small girl with her fiery red hair and spirit, and the fact that Harry will be utterly ruled over by her in a couple of years.

Right as he's buttoning up his robes, getting ready to leave towards his empty home, someone barges into his office.

"Hermione!" Harry exclaims with surprise. And then, as Harry sees his friend's expression, dread fills his chest. Something has happened. "Hermione, what is it?" Harry asks hurriedly, taking long, quick steps towards her.

Hermione looks terrified; her hair, the usual neat hairdo is all over the place, reminding Harry of their Hogwarts days. Her eyes are shining with tears and her hands are shaking.

"Something's happened, Harry," Hermione says, her voice trembling.

"What?" Harry asks frantically, all kinds of possibilities running in his mind.

"There has been a death on the Hogwarts Express."