Crabb and Goyle had been in Italy for almost a month now, delving deep into the death of Mrs. Zabini. The investigation had taken them through winding streets and dark alleys, into grand estates and dusty archives, as they tried to piece together a puzzle that seemed to grow more complex with each passing day. Their initial goal had been simple: find out if Mrs. Zabini's mysterious death was connected to her son Blaise's murder. But as they dug deeper, they realized they were dealing with a woman who had left a trail of death and wealth behind her, a trail that stretched across continents and decades.

The Zabini estate was as cold and silent as ever, its dark stone walls casting long shadows in the waning afternoon sun. Crabb and Goyle stood at the front entrance, a heavy wooden door that seemed more like the gate to a fortress than the entry to a home. The wind whipped around them, stirring up dust and leaves from the estate's neglected garden.

"We've been here too long," Crabb muttered, pulling his coat tighter around him. "I'm starting to forget what home feels like."

Goyle grunted in agreement, his eyes scanning the horizon. "But we can't leave yet. Not until we've figured out what's really going on. Too many questions still need answers."

Crabb nodded, his gaze drifting toward the large windows of the manor. "You're right. And it all comes back to her, doesn't it? Mrs. Zabini… The Black Widow, they used to call her."

The nickname was well-known, especially among pureblood circles. Mrs. Zabini had been infamous for her string of marriages, each ending in the mysterious death of her wealthy husbands. Seven in total, all of them succumbing to strange accidents, sudden illnesses, or unexplained disappearances. And each time, Mrs. Zabini had come out on top, inheriting their fortunes and moving on to the next.

Their investigation had already confirmed that Mrs. Zabini's death wasn't just a tragic accident. There was a dark thread that tied her fate to her son's. But now, the question was whether someone had finally come to collect a debt—a debt Mrs. Zabini had been stacking up for years.

"We've looked at her past, her lifestyle, even her enemies," Goyle said, leaning against the iron gate. "But what if we're missing the obvious? What if someone from her past, someone she wronged, decided to take revenge?"

Crabb glanced at him, considering the idea. "You mean one of her former husbands' families?"

Goyle nodded. "Exactly. We've been focused on the here and now, but Mrs. Zabini had a long history. Those husbands didn't just disappear without leaving someone behind. A brother, a son, a cousin… Someone who might've figured out what she did and finally decided to do something about it."

Crabb sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's a good theory. And it fits with the pattern. Blaise's death might've just been a way to get to her. Kill her son, shake her up, and then finish the job with her. But if that's true, then we're dealing with someone who's been planning this for years."

"And that makes them dangerous," Goyle added, his voice low. "Very dangerous."

They turned away from the gate and walked toward their rental car, their footsteps crunching on the gravel. The sun had dipped lower in the sky, casting the estate in a deep, ominous shadow. As they climbed into the car, Crabb pulled out the list of Mrs. Zabini's former husbands, their names neatly typed in black ink.

"Let's start with the first one," he said, tapping the list. "Julius Renaldi. Died in 1982. Officially, it was a heart attack, but rumors said otherwise."

Goyle nodded, starting the engine. "And then there's Victor Moretti. He fell from his horse during a hunting trip. Broke his neck, they said. But again, plenty of people didn't buy it."

The list went on—each name representing a man who had fallen into Mrs. Zabini's web and paid the ultimate price. Seven husbands, each death as mysterious as the last, each one followed by Mrs. Zabini's swift inheritance of their fortune.

As they drove through the narrow streets of Italy, heading toward their first destination, Crabb and Goyle couldn't shake the feeling that they were about to uncover something much bigger than they had anticipated.

Crabb and Goyle had spent weeks chasing leads, questioning people who had crossed paths with Mrs. Zabini, and examining every detail of her past. But after all that time, their investigation had come to a grinding halt. The more they uncovered, the more it seemed that Mrs. Zabini had played her cards perfectly. Every trail they followed led to a dead end, and every door they knocked on revealed nothing but shadows and whispers.

The turning point came when they discovered the key detail that unraveled their initial theory: Mrs. Zabini's husbands, while wealthy and successful, were all orphans. Self-made men with no ties to powerful pureblood families, no children to carry on their legacies, and no one left to avenge them.

Crabb stared at the notes they had painstakingly compiled over the last month, flipping through the pages with a growing sense of frustration. "It doesn't make sense," he muttered. "How can someone like her, who's been through so many husbands, not leave any trail behind?"

Goyle leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. "It makes perfect sense if you think about it. She chose them carefully. She knew what she was doing."

Crabb looked up, meeting Goyle's gaze. "You're saying she deliberately picked men who had no one? No family, no powerful friends?"

Goyle nodded. "Exactly. Every one of them—orphans, self-made men with no connections in the magical world that mattered. No one who could come after her. She targeted them because she knew that once they were gone, no one would question it. No one would care."

It was a bitter pill to swallow. They had been so focused on the idea of revenge, of someone coming back to settle a score, that they hadn't seen the bigger picture. Mrs. Zabini had played the long game, and she had played it well.

Crabb sighed, tossing the notebook onto the table. "So where does that leave us? We've got nothing. No suspects, no leads, and no motive beyond what we already know."

Goyle sat up, his expression grim. "It leaves us at a dead end. There's nothing more we can do here. We've questioned everyone, followed every lead, and all we've found are more questions."

They sat in silence for a few moments, the weight of their failure hanging heavily in the air. It was a rare thing for the two of them to admit defeat, but there was no denying the truth. Their investigation had hit a wall, and there was no way around it.

"We should head back to England," Crabb finally said, his voice flat. "We're wasting time here."

Goyle nodded in agreement. "Yeah. But before we go, let's make sure we document everything. Photos, notes, everything. We might not have found anything useful here, but maybe we'll see something we missed when we look at it from a different angle back home."

Over the next few days, they meticulously went over everything they had gathered. They took photographs of every suspect they had interviewed, every room in the Zabini estate, and even the guests who had attended Mrs. Zabini's funeral. They documented it all—every scrap of information, every name and face—hoping that something, anything, might make sense once they were back in Britain.

As they packed up their things, Crabbe looked around the small apartment they had rented for their stay in Italy. "You think we'll ever figure out what really happened?"

Goyle shrugged, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Maybe. Maybe not. But at least we tried."

They left the apartment and headed to the train station, the weight of their unfinished business hanging over them like a dark cloud. The journey back to England was long and uneventful, giving them plenty of time to reflect on the twists and turns their investigation had taken.

When they finally arrived back in Britain, it was with a sense of defeat but also a glimmer of hope. They had done everything they could in Italy, and while they hadn't found the answers they were looking for, they had gathered enough information to continue their work back home.

"We'll start going through everything tomorrow," Goyle said as they parted ways outside the station. "There's got to be something in all this that we missed."

Crabb nodded, though he wasn't as optimistic. "Yeah. Tomorrow."

As they went their separate ways, Crabbe couldn't help but feel a lingering sense of unease. Mrs. Zabini had been a master at covering her tracks, and even in death, she seemed to be one step ahead of them. But he couldn't shake the feeling that there was still more to this story—something hidden in the shadows, waiting to be uncovered.

And so, with their investigation at a standstill but far from over, Crabbe and Goyle prepared to dive back into the mystery of Mrs. Zabini's death. The answers they sought might still be out there, buried beneath layers of deception and darkness. And they would find them—one way or another.

Crabb and Goyle sat in a small, dimly lit waiting room at the Italian Ministry of Magic. The walls were adorned with old tapestries, and the only sounds were the soft ticking of a clock on the wall and the distant hum of magical activity from the floors above. They were waiting for their Portkey back to England, and though it would only be a few more minutes until they could leave, the wait felt interminable.

The sense of defeat weighed heavily on them, making the quiet seem oppressive.

"This was supposed to be it, Goyle," Crabb said quietly, breaking the silence. His voice carried a mix of frustration and disappointment. "Our big break. The case that would prove to everyone that we're more than just..."

"More than just what?" Goyle asked, even though he knew what his friend meant.

"More than just muscle," Crabb replied bitterly. "We thought we could be real Aurors. And now... now we're going back with nothing."

Goyle sighed and nodded slowly. The same thoughts had been circling his mind ever since they realized their investigation had hit a dead end. "Yeah. I thought we'd finally prove ourselves. Show them that we're more than what they think. But now... I don't know."

Their voices were low, barely louder than whispers, as if speaking too loudly would make their failures more real.

"What do you think will happen when we get back?" Crabb asked after a long pause. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Do you think they'll just... throw us back on patrol duty? Babysitting the new recruits?"

Goyle grimaced at the thought. "Probably. They'll say we need more experience. Like we haven't spent the last few years doing all the grunt work nobody else wants to do."

The bitterness in Goyle's voice matched Crabb's. They had tried so hard to leave their past behind and carve out new identities for themselves. But it seemed that no matter what they did, their past continued to define them in the eyes of others—and worse, in their own eyes."

And what happens to us then?" Crabb continued, his voice filled with growing frustration. "Do we just... fade away? Become nothing more than placeholders, doing the bare minimum until they push us out?"

It was a terrifying thought, one that neither of them wanted to entertain but couldn't ignore any longer. The idea that after all they had been through—all the battles, all the struggles—they might end up as nothing more than background figures, forgotten and dismissed.

Goyle shook his head, feeling the weight of Crabb's words. "I don't know, Crabb. I don't know."

The clock on the wall ticked away the minutes, each tick amplifying the heaviness in the room.

Crabb's eyes darkened as he stared at the floor, lost in thought. "You ever think... maybe we're just not cut out for this? Maybe we're not meant to be Aurors?"

The question hung in the air, heavy with doubt. It was a fear they had both been carrying for years, though neither had spoken it aloud until now. The idea that no matter how hard they tried, they would never be more than what they had been during the war.

Goyle let out a slow breath, leaning back in his chair. "Maybe. But... I don't want to believe that. We've already come this far. I don't want to give up now."

"Neither do I," Crabb admitted, though his voice wavered with uncertainty. "But what if... what if we're just not good enough?"

The clock continued to tick, the sound almost mocking in its steadiness as they wrestled with their doubts. The waiting room suddenly felt stifling, the air thick with the weight of unspoken fears and unrealized hopes.

"Maybe we're better off just sticking to what we know," Goyle said quietly. "Being nobles, sitting on the Wizengamot, making decisions that actually matter."

"Maybe," Crabb echoed, though there was no conviction in his voice. "But... I don't know. Being an Auror... it's the only thing that feels like we're actually doing something, you know?"

"Yeah," Goyle agreed. "But if we keep failing... what then? How long before they just push us out? How long before we push ourselves out?"

Crabb shook his head, the bitterness creeping back into his voice. "I don't know. But... I don't want to be a failure. Not again. We've already been through that once."

The silence returned, more oppressive than before. The clock ticked on, and the seconds stretched into what felt like hours.

Finally, the door to the waiting room creaked open, and a Ministry official poked his head in. "Mr. Crabb, Mr. Goyle? Your Portkey is ready."

The two Aurors stood, gathering their things, but the weight of their earlier conversation still lingered. As they approached the old, weathered book that served as their Portkey, Crabb glanced at Goyle.

"We'll figure it out," Goyle said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "We've always figured it out."

Crabb nodded, though he didn't fully believe it. "Yeah. We will."

They each placed a hand on the Portkey, feeling the familiar tug behind their navels as the magic activated. And as the room disappeared in a blur of color, taking them back to England, the doubts remained—unspoken but ever-present.

They didn't know what awaited them on the other side, but one thing was certain: they weren't ready to give up. Not yet.

Author Note:

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