Back at the Ministry, Harry couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that had settled in his gut after leaving Azkaban. The conversation with Draco had been nothing short of disturbing. That sharp, dangerous gleam in Draco's eyes had reminded him of darker times—of the boy who had once wielded a wand under Voldemort's shadow, trapped but never quite free from the allure of power.

But there was something more—something that Draco hadn't said but had implied. It wasn't just his usual bravado or arrogance. It was as though he genuinely understood the mind of the killer, and that scared Harry more than he wanted to admit.

As he sifted through the case files once more, Hermione's voice cut through his concentration.

"You're going back to him, aren't you?"

Harry looked up from his desk to find her standing in the doorway, arms crossed, her expression somewhere between worry and exasperation. She didn't need to say who. They both knew.

"I have to," Harry said quietly, his fingers tracing over the lines of ancient runes in the photographs before him. "He knows more than he's letting on."

Hermione stepped forward, setting down a stack of parchments and looking at Harry with a mix of frustration and concern. "Malfoy's a master manipulator, Harry. You know he's playing some sort of game with you."

"Maybe," Harry admitted, his thoughts drifting to Draco's cryptic words. "But what if he's not? What if this is our only way to stop the murders?"

She sighed, rubbing her temples. "I just don't like how he gets under your skin."

Harry didn't like it either. He hated it. But he couldn't deny that Draco was giving them insights no one else could. His knowledge of dark magic—his familiarity with the kind of twisted thinking that drove a person to ritual murder—was invaluable, however uncomfortable it made Harry.

"I'll be careful," Harry promised, though the reassurance felt hollow even to him.

Hermione studied him for a long moment, then nodded reluctantly. "Fine. But don't trust him. And for Merlin's sake, don't let him in your head."

Harry gave her a brief smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I won't."

But as Hermione left the room, Harry couldn't shake the lingering doubt. Draco already was in his head—far deeper than Harry wanted to admit.

Later that night, in his flat...

The rain had started again, tapping against the windows like impatient fingers. Harry sat at his small dining table, the dim light of a single lamp casting long shadows over the walls. In front of him lay a new file—another body had been found.

Harry's stomach twisted as he opened it. This time, it was different. The witch's body had been arranged in a precise position, her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes wide open, staring at something unseen. It was as if the killer had taken his time, perfecting every detail.

The runes were more intricate, and they glowed faintly in the photograph, as though the magic behind them was still lingering, pulsing beneath the surface.

Harry felt sick. Each new body brought them closer to something—something Draco had hinted at but never fully explained. The "final piece."

His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden knock at the door.

Harry froze. It was late, and he wasn't expecting anyone. His hand instinctively went to his wand as he approached the door.

When he opened it, he was surprised to see an unfamiliar figure standing there. A tall man, wrapped in a dark cloak, his hood pulled low over his face. Only his eyes were visible, glinting in the dim light.

"Auror Potter?" the man asked in a deep, gravelly voice.

Harry nodded cautiously. "Yes. Can I help you?"

The man glanced around, then leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "I have information about the murders. Information you'll want to hear."

Harry's grip on his wand tightened. "Who are you?"

"That's not important," the man said quickly. "But the killer—he's closer than you think. And he's not working alone."

Harry's heart raced. "What do you mean?"

The man's eyes flicked down the hallway, as if he was nervous about being seen. "There's a connection between the victims. They're not random, Potter. They're linked. And if you don't find out how soon, there'll be more."

Harry's mind reeled. "Linked how?"

Before the man could answer, there was a flash of movement behind him, and Harry barely had time to react as a spell whizzed through the air, hitting the man square in the back. He collapsed to the ground, his body convulsing as Harry dove for cover, his wand raised, eyes searching for the source of the attack.

But whoever had cast the spell was gone, vanished into the darkness.

Heart pounding, Harry knelt beside the man, who was gasping for breath, blood seeping from his mouth.

"What... what are they after?" Harry demanded, trying to keep the man conscious.

But the man's eyes rolled back, and with a final, shuddering breath, he was gone.

Harry cursed under his breath, scanning the hallway, but it was too late. The attacker had disappeared, leaving behind only questions.

As Harry stared down at the dead informant, the pieces of the puzzle shifted in his mind, but they still refused to come together.

Who was the man? And more importantly, who had silenced him?

The case was growing more complicated, and as Harry felt the grip of darkness tighten, he knew he had to go back to Draco. The killer wasn't working alone—this was bigger than they had thought. And if they didn't figure it out soon, more blood would be spilled.

But as he prepared himself to face Draco again, a nagging voice in the back of his mind whispered that the cost of seeking Draco's help might be far greater than he was willing to pay.