Disclaimer: This story is based on the characters and world created by JK Rowling. Anything you do not recognise is my own creation. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

– CHAPTER FIFTEEN –

Murder in St Mungo's

'Are we ever gonna do this?'

Neville's jaw clenched, but he otherwise showed no signs that he had heard his partner. He simply stared at the St Mungo's blueprint he had acquired a week previous.

Working with Ron Weasley had been more difficult than any of his missions with the Unit. At first, it had been so promising. Ron had cleaned himself up and, with Neville's help, made his house liveable. Driven to help Harry, Ron had tracked down Lazarus' mother in the space of a week, a feat that would have taken Neville months. They had begun to formulate the beginnings of a plan when September the Nineteenth struck.

'D'you … d'you think I should …' Ron began, but trailed off uncertainly.

'Think you should what?' Neville said, looking up. Ron was unrecognisable from the snivelling wretch Neville had found at the start of the month. His flaming red hair was now cropped short and bereft of the grease that had once smothered it. He was clean-shaven and, after a fortnight of gorging himself, looked less skeletal.

'Nah … probably a bad idea.'

'What is?'

Ron's face flashed with the familiar look of pain, but there was something else now. Was it hope?

'It's just … it's her birthday today.'

There was no mistaken which 'her' Ron was referring to. Neville considered for a moment before nodding. After all, Ron was a changed man now, much more like the war hero he had fought alongside at the Battle of Hogwarts.

'You should owl her,' Neville said.

Famous last words.

Ron had disappeared into his bedroom for hours and emerged with a three foot roll of parchment. His scrawled handwriting covered both sides. Neville had pointed out that it was the most he had ever seen Ron write, and Ron had laughed. Actually laughed.

That night, Ron owled Hermione. One day went by. Then two, three, four, five. With every passing day, Ron's mood darkened. On the tenth day, Hermione had sent the letter back unopened. That evening, Ron had his first sip of Firewhiskey.

A week had passed since then, and it had taken all of Neville's self-control not to hex him into oblivion. While Neville built a complete profile on Lazarus' family, Ron sat brooding over old photographs and letters. Whenever Neville tried to teach Ron the theory behind their disguises, Ron would snap something like 'It's only Polyjuice, get over it' or 'We didn't kill Voldemort by sitting on our arses'. When Neville reminded him that the three Gryffindors had indeed spent a great deal of time planning, Ron would retreat to his room.

'You know what,' said Neville, feigning brightness, 'I think we're ready.'

'Finally.'

Ron, who had been spread over the shabby armchair, swung his legs around and jumped to his feet.

'So if you remember what I was telling you about Lazarus' cousin yesterday …'

'He's a mute. I know, I know. I'm not deaf.'

Ever since Hermione's rejection, Neville had been worried about Ron blowing their cover; even when sober, he wasn't exactly the most careful. Then, during one of the Veritaserum sessions with Lazarus' mother, Neville struck gold. Her brother's son had lost his tongue in a magical accident. Within half an hour of that interrogation, Neville had found Peter Boon in a Muggle brothel.

Of course, Ron had not taken the time to study Peter's body language, or even his style of dress. But Camilla, Lazarus' mother, was an imposing woman. Neville was counting on all eyes being on her rather than the mousy, mute boy. It was a risk he never would have taken on a job for the Unit, but times were desperate.

Neville went over to an old, pock-marked grandfather clock in the corner of the room. He drew a circle around the clock face with the tip of his wand and the clock dissolved, revealing a pewter cauldron pregnant with thick, bubbling liquid.

Neville could feel Ron approaching behind him. He held his arm out; he could not afford to let Ron ruin the potion, not now he was so close. Neville knelt down so his eyes were level with the surface of the cauldron. The bubbling Polyjuice was thick and mud-like: it was ready.

Neville reached into his robe and pulled out two vials. Silently, he handed one to Ron and scooped a healthy amount of potion into his own. Once Ron had filled his vial, Neville took two hairs from his robe pocket. Ron took the blonde lock and Neville the silver one.

'Merlin, that looks disgusting,' murmured Ron, eyeing his potion, which was now an acid green.

'It could be worse,' muttered Neville. His own potion had turned a sickly yellow upon adding the hair.

Ron raised his vial in a mock toast. 'To Harry.'

Neville raised the vial to his mouth. The smell of rotting fish made him gag. Holding his nose with his free hand, he downed the potion in one.

His eyes watered. Beyond the sharp, burning sensation, Neville's mouth detected the fishy taste his nose had warned of. He tried to see how Ron was faring, but the room was a blur of colour.

Accio glasses!

Neville squinted and made out a black object flying at him. He made to swipe it out of the air but missed and instead hit the cauldron with a clang. As if to add insult to the pain travelling up his arm, the glasses thudded against the side of his head. Cursing, he picked the glasses up and placed them at the end of his elongated nose.

The first thing he saw was Ron peering at the mirror in disgust. He looked to be in his early twenties, but his blonde hair was already receding into a sharp widow's peak. His crooked nose would have made Dumbledore proud and his beaver-like front teeth, stained yellow, hung over his bottom lip.

'I never said you'd be Lockhart,' said Neville, and his voice came out in a thin, reedy hiss.

Ron opened his mouth to reply, but only managed a strangled gurgle. Where his tongue should have been was a black hole.

'Right, let's get on with it, then,' said Neville.

Accio clothes!

Frilly green robes embroidered with chrysanthemums shot at him from a box by the window. Ron, who was a similar size to Peter Boon, would not need to change. Trying not to catch sight of his own withered, sagging flesh, Neville slipped into the robes. He switched his toe-capped boots for plimsolls: while Mrs Boon always wore high heels, Neville could barely walk in them, let alone make a quick getaway.

He tried to walk over to the mirror but found his body stiff and immobile.

Accio cane!

A dragon-headed black cane emerged from the box. With it, Neville found he made reasonable progress across the room. He peered over his cat-eye spectacles and checked his disguise. Staring back at him was a stern-looking old woman with grey hair rolled into a bun. Her heavily-lipsticked mouth was permanently forced into a tight frown.

'Perfect,' said Neville. He tried to smile, but found it hurt.

Taking a breath, he got into character. This would not be as easy as impersonating Hans the barman: for one, he was an old woman now. That meant holding himself straighter and being careful not to make sudden movements. He had not had enough practice time to fool an expert, but he was confident the Aurors guarding Lazarus would be none-the-wiser.

'Come along, Peter,' said Neville sharply, 'we are running late. Your cousin is waiting.'

Ron's ugly features twisted into a disgusted snarl: at least he had remembered some of Neville's research.

Neville held out his arm imperiously. Ron scowled but gripped it nonetheless. They Disapparated and reappeared in the reception of St Mungo's.

'Release my arm, boy, we've arrived.'

Martha the welcomewitch barely spared them a glance. It was odd not to see her give him a warm smile: it made him feel strangely empty. They joined a small queue of people waiting to see Martha.

A woman with snakes for hair approached the desk.

'Fourth floor,' said Martha, gazing at her own nails. 'Next!'

A stooped man whose hair was standing on end approached next. He was cradling what looked like the mangled remains of a cauldron.

'I've had –'

'Ground floor, first door on your right,' said Martha, failing to hide her boredom.

'But –'

'Has your accident impaired your hearing? Ground floor, first door on your right. Next!'

Neville and Ron shuffled forward. Neville glanced at Ron as a man with cacti for hands approached the desk. He could clearly see the doubt etched across Ron's face. Neville squeezed his shoulder and breathed, 'Don't worry, it'll work.'

Ron did not look pacified but raised voices drew his attention back to the counter.

'And I already told you, sir, that you want the fourth floor.'

'I don't think I care for your tone, missy.' The man was pointing a cactus hand at Martha, who was looking exasperated.

'Either you make your way to the fourth floor or I call for security and you can heal yourself. The choice is yours.'

The man glared at Martha before sweeping away, muttering under his breath. Neville moved forward to the desk.

'I'm here to see Tiberius Boon,' said Neville. Despite his best efforts, it came out as a low hiss.

Martha's head snapped up and, for the first time, she looked completely alert. Neville knew the Aurors would have instructed her to report any visitors to Tiberius, otherwise known as Lazarus. He noticed out of the corner of his eye that a portly, red-faced man in a portrait by the desk disappeared out of his frame.

'And you are?' she said.

Neville fixed her with the most withering look he could muster and said, 'His mother.'

Martha's eyes narrowed. 'But when we first contacted you, you said he could "rot in hell for all you cared".'

Neville had expected this; from his interviews with Mrs Boon, he knew that Lazarus had tried to murder her. There was no love lost between mother and son.

'Young lady, the boy who was my son lies dying in one of your beds. He may have been a disgrace to my noble house, but he remains my blood and I wish to see him one last time. Am I to understand that you will not allow me to exercise my ancient rights?'

Martha shifted uncomfortably, but was no less suspicious. She was stalling, Neville realised.

'Ancient rights?' she said.

'Muggle-borns,' Neville tutted, sharing a look with an incredulous Ron.

'I'll have you know –' began Martha, reddening somewhat.

'I am not here to argue, girl. Tell me where my son is.'

The portly man returned to his portrait and coughed. Martha immediately regained her composure and gave Neville a brilliant smile.

'Of course, Madam Boon. Your son is in Ward forty-nine on the fourth floor. Shall I call a member of staff to assist you?'

'I'm old, not stupid. I can make may own way there. Come along, Peter.'

Neville hobbled away from the desk and went through the double doors. He was painfully aware of the portraits either side of him, silent spies for the Ministry. His cane clanked as he made for the familiar rickety staircase.

His stomach had often been in knots in this very corridor. He had known, even as a small child, that any day could bring the news he had always dreaded: that his parents were dead. But now his nerves were directed at their likely arrest and incarceration.

He did not fear that the portraits were reporting to the Aurors. He was not even afraid of the Aurors themselves. No, what he was afraid of was Bogand. Bogand had pre-empted Harry's attempt to break into the Unit and locked him out. Was Bogand one step ahead of Neville, too?

Neville's cane hit each step he climbed with a clank until they came to the double doors marked 'Spell Damage'.

What would Neville find beyond the doors? The more he thought about it, the more fool-hardy the plan seemed. Bogand would have predicted this. He would have Obliviators on the other side of the door, ready to make Neville forget the last ten years of his life at the Ministry.

His gut told him to abandon the mission, and his gut was almost never wrong.

'Let's come another day,' said Neville.

But Ron had other ideas. He burst into the room.

Neville closed his eyes and counted to five. If Unit agents were behind that door, their cover was blown. Peter Boon never disobeyed his Aunt: if Neville knew that, so to would the agents. He listened for any sign of a scuffle. The Obliviate spell could not be cast wordlessly: if Ron had been hit, he would know. Then maybe, just maybe, it was safe to proceed. After all, Bogand would already have his hands full tracking Harry …

Tentatively, Neville pushed the door to the Janus Thickey Ward. And beyond it there was … nothing. No Elladora greeting him at the door, no patients in their beds, no Healers swarming around like green bees. It was completely empty. Except for one bed.

A cold feeling that had nothing to do with the open window trickled down his neck.

Something was seriously wrong.

Ron made a strangled noise and pointed towards the only occupied bed.

'No!' hissed Neville.

With a sharp swipe, his wand was in his hand. He laid it flat on his palm.

Homenum revelio!

His wand grew hot and, compass-like, alternated between Ron and the bed. It was true: the ward was empty. Rather than soothe him, the news had the opposite effect. Where were the Aurors guarding the bed? Neville closed his eyes and groaned. Of course! The portly man in the portrait must have warned them of Neville's arrival. And he, with all his years of experience, had fallen into their trap.

Neville grabbed Ron roughly and said, 'Home.'

But nothing happened.

'Fuck!' They had activated anti-Portkey wards. The blueprint Neville had obtained had failed to cover emergency measures. But Neville was not going to roll over.

He lashed his wand like a whip and cried, 'Obscuro!'

There were several gasps from two portraits hanging either side of the door as their occupants became blindfolded. With another flick of his wand, a large cage, almost the size of each frame, appeared in each painting.

'How dare you!'

'Release us at once!'

'Braggard!'

Ignoring the cries coming from the trapped paintings, Neville turned to Ron.

'The Aurors know we're imposters. There's only one entrance, so we know where they'll come from. I want you to Disillusion yourself. Set any traps you can wordlessly, and hold them off if you can. Just do what we practised and we'll be fine.'

Ron nodded, tapped the tip of his wand on his head and disappeared from sight.

Neville felt the calm sense of purpose that gripped him during missions wash over him. They had spent two days practising for this eventuality. If Ron stuck to the plan, they would be fine.

Clank! Clank! Clank!

Neville reached Lazarus' bed in three hobbled steps. Lazarus' features, once handsome and haughty, were sunken and hollow. Beads of sweat clung to his face and plastered his dirty auburn hair to his face. His eyes were wide and fearful. While he no longer thrashed, he continued to mutter endlessly.

'Stone … Death … Stone … Death …'

Neville lowered his head so he was inches from Lazarus' face. He looked deep into Lazarus' dark eyes and said, 'Legilimens!'

Lazarus' pupils grew wider and wider until Neville was swimming in a tide of hazy nothingness. Neville charged further in and found misty clouds darting this way and that, impossible to read: Lazarus' mind was preparing to die.

Neville kept the image of Harry at the forefront of his mind and called out to the memories. They slowed, but continued to rush by at an unreadable speed.

Neville knew what he had to do. Unauthorised, it warranted a life sentence in Azkaban, but Neville had to know for sure. He could not confront Harry without absolute proof. He had to know! And, after all, Lazarus was dying anyway. Not only that, but Lazarus was responsible for the deaths of countless witches and wizards who had strayed off the beaten track. Yes, he thought, it was justified.

He pictured Harry's face again. Arresto!

The fleeing memories immediately stopped moving: all except one. Neville called it to him and it obeyed.

Suddenly, the other memories faded away and Neville found himself in a pub he knew well: Pendrell's Oak. Dying candlelight illuminated upturned wooden chairs resting on rickety tables. The mahogany bar was unmanned, the non-descript door was firmly shut and four men surrounded a fifth.

As the colours sharpened, Neville could see that the surrounded man was Dennis Creevey. He was on his knees, his hands together.

'You act as though I'm being unreasonable,' said Lazarus in his nasally voice. He alone of the four men was seated. He leaned back nonchalantly and an ugly smirk twisted his handsome face. 'I extended you a loan for your photography shop at a rate Gringotts would never offer an unconnected Muggle-born. And now, when I want my money back, you're fobbing me off.'

'I – I swear I'm not!'

'Rohan, another round,' said Lazarus.

'Crucio!'

Neville looked on with disgust as Creevey writhed in pain. Lazarus raised his hand and Creevey's screams subsided, though he still twitched convulsively.

'Now, let's come up with a payment –'

BANG!

A body burst through the door with such force that the entire pub shook. It arced through the air amongst a cloud of wooden shards and slammed into a nearby table. Another body flew through the doorway and landed on the bar with a sickening thud.

Lazarus' three cronies stared at the bodies in horror, but Lazarus jumped to his feet, his eyes narrowed. He flicked his wand and Creevey mechanically held his wand to his own temple. Neville understood: he had been placed under the Imperius Curse.

A soft breeze blew autumn leaves into the pub.

'Tiberius … Tiberius …'

For the first time, Lazarus registered fear.

'To the door!' he cried at his cronies. 'Guard the door!'

The three wizards, however, looked as though they were frozen to the spot. Lazarus tried to Disapparate to no avail. His eyes darted to the roaring fireplace. As he took a step towards it, the entire pub was plunged into darkness.

One flash of brilliant green. Then another, and another.

The candles relit, stronger than before. All three guards lay in a crumpled heap. Creevey was nowhere to be seen. Lazarus alone remained standing. The flames in the fireplace, which had been dancing and spitting moments before, were extinguished.

'Incendio!'

A jet of flame shot out of Lazarus' wand, but died before it could reach the fireplace.

In a cruel parody of the situation minutes before, Lazarus dropped to his knees and his curtained hair fell across his face. A cloaked man seemed to step out of thin air. The invisibility cloak, Neville knew. His hood cast a dark shadow over his face: Neville could not make out the features.

'Please, I can help you!' In a movement quicker than Neville would have expected, Lazarus brought up his wand and cried, 'Avada Kedavra!'

Death sidestepped the curse with ease. A hoarse, low laugh came from behind the hood.

Without warning, a jet of golden fire issued from Death's wand. The wand in Lazarus' hand exploded in a golden shower. In the light, Neville recognised the wand Death was holding: the Elder Wand.

With another swing of the legendary wand, Lazarus was forced into the air and hung beneath the ceiling like a piece of meat in a butcher's shop.

'Where is the Resurrection Stone?' said Death, his voice calm.

An odd, peaceful look was passing over Lazarus' face. Neville had seen it countless times. Lazarus knew that his death was imminent, and he had accepted it.

'You'll never know.'

A black curse Neville did not recognise shot out of the Elder Wand with such force that it recoiled in Death's hand. It struck Lazarus in the chest. The criminal began convulsing violently. His face was drained of colour and his eyes rolled into the back of his head. White froth crawled out of his open mouth.

Neville looked on with horror. He had assumed the Cruciatus Curse had put Lazarus in his current state. But this … this was much worse.

Lazarus floated towards Death, stopping only when they were eye to eye.

'Legilimens!'

They remained nose to nose for one, two, three minutes.

Then Lazarus dropped, a puppet whose strings had been cut. Death suddenly whirled around so quickly that his hood shot back a fraction.

Neville's heart sunk.

Messy, jet black hair poked out from underneath the hood. Death turned back around. Reflected candlelight flickered in the lenses of a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. A pair of brilliant green eyes pierced through the shimmering flames.

It was Harry.

Harry readjusted his hood and examined Lazarus' limp form. Satisfied, he straightened up and disappeared. A moment later, a pair of Aurors stepped into the pub, their wands raised. Neville withdrew …

… And returned to chaos.

A rainbow array of spells were flying through the ward, shredding through curtains and renting beds apart. Half a dozen Aurors had just broken through a curved wall Ron must have conjured. A fraction of a second before they caught sight of him, Neville Disillusioned himself and silenced his body.

Neville dropped to his stomach. He reasoned that he must have transformed back into his normal body as the movement did not break any bones. A jet of red light passed so close over his head that he felt the force of it.

Stupefy!

The spell struck the ankle of the Auror nearest him and the thick-set wizard hit the floor with a thud.

'It came from over there!' yelled a blonde witch. She was pointed straight at Neville.

Neville touched the floor with the tip of his wand.

Glisseo!

Neville propelled himself under the cover of a nearby bed as a volley of Stunners struck the spot he had just vacated.

'Fan out,' called a deep, powerful voice, 'we have them trapped here. What's the status on Lazarus?'

'He's dead,' replied a high voice.

'Thought so. Remember our orders: they're to be brought in alive.'

Neville looked this way and that, analysing the situation. The Auror he had Stunned had been Rennervated. He had no chance of outdueling six Aurors. There were two Aurors between his safe spot under the bed and the door. And Merlin only knew where Ron was hiding.

Stunning spells were flying thick through the air. A Finite Incantatem whistled past his bed.

Neville had an idea. He just hoped his shaky Transfiguration was up to it.

Glisseo! Glisseo! Glisseo!

One of the Aurors slipped and crashed into another. Before they could think to nullify the spell, Neville ordered the nearest bed to begin sliding around. It crashed straight into a pair of legs that Neville guessed belonged to the blonde Auror. Concentrating as hard as he could, Neville animated two more beds and willed them to join the commotion.

'F – Finite Incan – oomph!'

The Aurors were struggling to deal with the situation in such a confined space.

With a mighty push, Neville propelled himself past an unconscious Auror and through the ward entrance.

Before he could congratulate himself, the world went black.

Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder. The faint smell of gunpowder gave it away.

'Neville?' muttered Ron, somewhere to his right.

'Here.'

'One sec.'

A blow struck Neville in the chest. He cried out in pain.

'They're in the corridor!' bellowed a voice.

'Sorry,' muttered Ron. 'Take off the Disillusionment.'

The part of him closest to his throbbing chest wanted to tell Ron to go fuck himself. But Neville did he was told. His reward: being dragged roughly to his feet.

Ron guided Neville up what Neville assumed to be the staircase. When they reached a landing, Neville found he could now see.

Ron's robes were torn and there was a throbbing bruise on one cheek. He was also wearing a strange pair of glasses. The lenses were bright green.

'They help you see through the dark,' Ron explained. 'It's a prototype George made.' He then took out a pouch and flung its powdery contents down the staircase below, plunging it in darkness.

'That was … brilliant, Ron.'

'Don't sound so surprised,' Ron muttered. 'We can't pat ourselves on the back yet, mate, we're still trapped here.'

'Follow me,' said Neville.

Neville and Ron jogged down a deserted corridor with what looked like a teashop at the end of it. His throbbing chest fought against every step. Ignoring the pain, Neville blinded and trapped the portraits as they went by.

Three doors away from the tearoom was a glass door that was ornately carved with the words: Head of St Mungo's. He had been here a number of times as a child. Given how high-profile his parents had been and the amount his grandmother paid in donations, Head Healer Machaon regularly invited them up to her office for tea.

Neville pushed it open and, once they were in, locked it behind them. He pictured Machaon and applied a glamour on the door. Any passers-by would assume that she was busy with a patient.

'This place is a bit shabby for a Head of Department,' said Ron.

The office was indeed very simple; a mahogany table sat in front of a large window. Dappled light filtered in through the blinds and gave the office a cabin-like quality. But it was empty, and for that Neville was grateful.

'Never mind that,' snapped Neville.

He began pacing furiously. Harry was Death. Death was Harry. Harry was clearly accustomed to torture and killing. He was honing his craft for Luna's killer. And he had all three Hallows in his power. What did he need them for? Only the Elder Wand would be of any use when he confronted the culprit.

Neville had to arrest Harry, that much was clear. But where to find him? How close had Harry come to working out the identity of Luna's murderer?

'So what's the next step?' asked Ron.

'That,' said Neville, rounding on him, 'is a bloody good question.'

'What did you see in Lazarus' mind?'

'Harry's in serious trouble. We need to find him as soon as possible or he's going to do something stupid.'

Ron pushed a stack of parchment to one side and leaned on Machaon's table.

'If we're gonna find him,' said Ron, 'we need to know what his motivations are.'

'We know what his motivations are,' snapped Neville.

'No, I mean we need to really get inside his head.'

'How are we …'

Neville trailed off. Of course! They needed to get inside Harry's head! And who better to ask than the very man who was paid to do just that.

'Ron, you're an absolute genius.'

'I am?'

Neville tried to recall the name of Harry's Mind Healer. He was at Luna's funeral; Neville had even shaken hands with him. It was Sayer-something. No, Sayer was his surname. Neville hoped that would be enough.

'We're going to pay a visit to a man who knows Harry better than anyone,' said Neville. He walked over to the fireplace.

Incendio!

With a jab his wand, a fire roared into life. He grabbed a handful of Floo powder from the mantelpiece.

'Our next stop is Healer Sayer's Office.'

Feeling the day was finally looking up, Neville flung the powder into the fire, which immediately turned bottle green. He clearly said 'Healer Sayer's Office' and stepped into the fire.

He rolled out at the other end and found himself in an empty office. It was similar in style to Head Healer Machaon's office, except it had a chamois leather couch instead of a hearth rug. Neville dusted himself off and heard Ron stumble in behind him.

There was another similarity to Machaon's office: it was deserted. And it looked as though it had been that way for some time.

'Fuck,' muttered Neville.

But then he caught sight of something on the cupboard shelf: a heavy, stone basin he had only seen twice before. It was a Pensieve.

Intrigued, Neville approached it. As he drew closer, he noticed strange runes around the edge. Neville could not read them.

Neville hesitated. Pensieves were incredible rare and personal. The ones he had seen – the Hogwarts Headmistress' and Bogand's – were jealously guarded by both. But Sayer had left his here where anyone could find it. Neville could only draw one conclusion: it was meant to be found.

'Is that?' breathed Ron.

'Yeah.'

Carefully, Neville lifted it from the shelf. It was surprisingly light. The silvery mist, neither liquid nor gas, swirled furiously as he transported it to the table. He laid it down carefully, as though handling a baby.

'Ron,' said Neville, transfixed by the writhing memories, 'I need you to do me a favour and keep guard. I need to see what Harry's Mind Healer left behind.'

'Why do I have to stand guard again?' he said petulantly.

'Pensieve memories are clearest to Legilimens,' Neville lied. 'And one of us has to stand guard just in case they work out we came here.'

Neville doubted they would. Not even Bogand would dream that Neville would forgo the opportunity to leave the hospital. Regardless, it would be prudent to make sure.

Ron grumbled, but his shuffling feet told Neville he was making for the door.

'Make sure you –'

'– Disillusion myself, I know.'

Neville waited for the door to close before taking a closer look at the contents of the Pensieve. The mist suddenly cleared. He could see a street far below, but he could not make out the details. He leaned further forward until his nose touched the surface.

With a lurch, the office disappeared.