CHAPTER 5
The rain battered London, an incessant curtain of water descending from the sky as if trying to wash something invisible from the dark streets. Grimmauld Place looked even gloomier under the weight of the storm. Thunder roared in the distance, shaking the old windowpanes. Lightning slashed across the sky, casting restless shadows through the empty corridors of the house.
In the study, Harry sat at the desk, the only light coming from the fireplace, crackling in golden tones. Before him lay the parchment Kingsley had given him. He didn't want to open it. Not because he feared what he would find, but because he knew what it meant. Opening that parchment wasn't just about uncovering another dirty secret of the Ministry. It was about dragging himself even deeper into something that was already beyond his control. And he didn't want that. But he wanted to see it through.
So, he swallowed hard, took the parchment, and broke the seal. The ink was still fresh, as if someone had written it in haste. The words were short, direct.
"The project was terminated for classified reasons. No research remained accessible.
All those involved were removed or reassigned.
What happened was deemed a threat to the very fabric of magic."
Harry felt his stomach turn. The words seemed to dance on the parchment, the hurried handwriting as if the writer himself had been nervous. He had seen this kind of language before. They omitted as much as possible. Said just enough to suggest that something much bigger had happened, but without giving any concrete clues.
He scanned the text again, trying to absorb every detail. The project was terminated. A threat to the fabric of magic. What kind of magic would need to be banned forever?
Harry narrowed his eyes, gripping the page between his fingers. The project's name wasn't there. No date. No responsible party. But he was already certain that Mulciber was in the middle of it. And now, he knew that Daphne Greengrass was involved as well. He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly.
The storm howled outside, thunder shaking Grimmauld Place. The clock read 3:47 AM. Harry tossed the parchment onto the table, grabbed the bottle of Firewhiskey, and poured himself a drink without thinking.
The truth was there, right in front of him. But the final piece was still missing.
Harry let out a heavy sigh, his gaze fixed on the parchment. The text said nothing useful. Nothing he hadn't already suspected. Nothing worth the wasted time.
"Damn you, Kingsley…" he muttered, grabbing the Firewhiskey bottle and taking a swig straight from the neck. The alcohol burned his throat, but the heat did nothing to quell his growing frustration.
Harry gripped the parchment tightly. Why the hell would Kingsley give him something so empty? If the Minister knew something was wrong in the Department of Mysteries, why was he still hiding information? He ran a hand through his messy hair, letting out an irritated grunt.
And then, without thinking, he hurled the parchment away. The piece of paper flew through the air, spinning over itself until it landed near the fireplace. Harry didn't move immediately. He just sat there, taking a drag from his cigarette, watching the storm lash against the windows.
Lightning illuminated Grimmauld Place in brief flashes, revealing the angular shadows of the old Black residence. And then, something caught his attention.
The ink was moving.
Harry frowned. Slowly, he rose from his chair. The parchment, now partially lit by the fire's glow, had new words appearing. The handwriting was different from the original message. The letters emerged as if being written at that very moment—thin and irregular, forming themselves across the aged paper.
Harry knelt down slowly, pulling the parchment away before it got too close to the flames.
His eyes scanned the new words. The original message was still there, but now, between the lines, there was something else.
"Some records were erased. But nothing disappears completely."
"The key is not in what was written, but in what was forgotten."
"Not everyone involved was silenced."
Harry felt a chill run down his spine. He didn't recognize the handwriting. And that unsettled him even more. This wasn't written by Kingsley. This wasn't from the Department of Mysteries. So… whose was it?
He ran his fingers over the surface of the parchment. No unusual texture. No obvious spell. But the ink was still fresh. As if someone, somewhere, had just written this for him.
Harry swallowed hard, pulling the cigarette from his lips and crushing it into the ashtray. If someone was trying to communicate with him, it meant not everything was buried. And if not everyone had been silenced…
It meant someone was still alive.
Someone who knew everything.
And Harry was going to find them.
~HP~
Harry stood in the administration office of St. Mungo's, holding the parchment sealed with the official crest of the Wizarding Council. It was heavy—not because of the material, but because of what it represented.
He had spent weeks trying to open this door, running into bureaucracy and political barriers protecting Rosier. Now, he had finally done it. A formal court order, signed by Kingsley and the High Council. He could spend the night in the hospital. Monitoring Adrian Rosier. And no one could stop him.
Almost no one.
"This is highly irregular."
The cold, monotone voice of St. Mungo's head administrator, Marlene Abbott, broke the tense silence in the room. She held the parchment between her fingers, scanning each line as if searching for an error that would invalidate the document.
"It's no more irregular than a man in a coma being linked to three murders," Harry replied, crossing his arms.
Marlene pressed her lips together, visibly displeased.
"The hospital has its rules, Potter."
"And the Ministry has its own."
He leaned forward slightly, not breaking eye contact.
"I'm staying the night in the hospital."
She didn't respond immediately. Harry could see the internal battle playing out in her mind. The political pressure. The bureaucracy. The discomfort. But in the end… she had no choice.
With an irritated sigh, she stamped the approval with a flick of her wand.
"You have permission to monitor Rosier overnight."
She slid the parchment back to him, still reluctant.
"But if anything happens, if this harms any other patient, the Ministry will be held responsible."
Harry took the document and tucked it into the inner pocket of his coat.
"Then I hope the hospital has something to hide, because if it's just incompetence, this will be a waste of time."
He turned before she could respond, crossing the administration office and heading down the corridor lit by floating torches. The feeling of victory was weak. Because deep down, he knew. This wasn't the end of the fight. It was only the beginning.
The coma ward was cold and silent. The enchanted torches flickered weakly, casting pale shadows on the white stone walls. Adrian Rosier's room was at the end of the hallway. Harry pushed the door open slowly, the creak of the hinges breaking the absolute silence. He didn't know what he expected to find. But the sense of unease was almost tangible.
Rosier's figure was there, lying still as a corpse. The young man looked even paler under the dim light, dark hair spread over the pillow, his features marked by time.
Harry stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The chair beside the bed was uncomfortable, but he dropped into it anyway, letting out a tired sigh. Now, all that was left was to wait.
But he wasn't alone for long.
The door opened again.
Harry looked up and saw Daphne Greengrass standing at the entrance. She looked tense, but her expression remained controlled, her blue-gray eyes sweeping over the scene before her.
"That's a terrible habit of yours, Potter." Her voice cut through the silence, as dry as ever.
Harry raised an eyebrow.
"What? Sitting around waiting for answers no one wants to give me?"
She crossed her arms, closing the door behind her.
"Thinking you can solve everything on your own."
Harry let out a short, humorless laugh.
"And do you think I have a choice?"
Daphne didn't answer immediately. She walked to the other end of the room, stopping near the table where a few medical notes rested.
"I can't say I'm surprised," she murmured.
Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"Why are you here, Greengrass?"
She lifted her gaze to meet his.
"Because I know you won't leave here without finding something."
There was a brief moment of silence. The storm continued to roar outside, thunder splitting the distant sky.
Harry narrowed his eyes.
"Then tell me."
Daphne raised an eyebrow.
"What?"
"Why did you lie?"
The tension in the room shifted instantly. Daphne didn't move. But Harry saw it in her eyes—for just a second—the slightest flicker of hesitation. It was enough for him to know he was right.
But Daphne recovered quickly. She let out a quiet sigh, crossing her arms.
"I didn't lie."
Harry gave a humorless smile.
"That's interesting because every hospital record says otherwise."
Daphne didn't look away. But Harry noticed the stiffness in her shoulders. She knew he was close to the truth. But she wasn't ready to talk. Not yet.
"If I were you, Potter…" Her voice was lower now, almost a warning. "I wouldn't push too hard on this."
Harry leaned back in his chair, pulling a cigarette from his pocket.
"And why is that?"
Daphne held his gaze for a few seconds. Then, she turned toward the door.
"Because some truths cannot be unearthed without consequences."
She left before he could respond. The door closed softly behind her.
Harry remained there, alone with Rosier and his own thoughts. He took a drag from his cigarette, lighting it with a quick flick, and waited.
He stubbed it out in the ashtray beside Rosier's bed, but he didn't sit for long. Daphne was hiding something. And if she wouldn't talk, he would find the answers himself.
Moving silently, he slipped through the door, careful to keep a safe distance so she wouldn't notice him.
The halls of St. Mungo's were quiet, but the air was heavy, thick with the sterile scent of potions and the distant echo of hurried footsteps from the night healers.
Daphne walked with purpose, shoulders tense, steps too quick for someone merely wandering the hospital. Harry followed, keeping to the shadows, his eyes locked on her figure as she moved through the corridors.
He didn't know where she was going, but he knew it wasn't anywhere ordinary. Then, he saw it.
She stopped in front of a door with a worn crest, the ancient symbol of St. Mungo's carved into the dark wood. The restricted section of the hospital.
Harry frowned. He had tried to access that wing before. It was one of the oldest parts of St. Mungo's, where only authorized healers were allowed. Ordinary patients weren't treated there. And Daphne knew that.
She glanced around quickly, making sure no one was watching. Then, she slid her wand over the door's lock, murmuring something too quiet for Harry to hear.
The lock clicked open without a sound.
She vanished into the dark corridors beyond.
Harry took a few steps forward, preparing to follow her—
A group of healers turned the corner at that exact moment. He barely had time to react.
"Hey!" one of the healers grumbled, frowning as he spotted Harry standing there. "Do you think you can walk around here like it's your house?"
Harry didn't respond immediately. The three healers looked exhausted, wearing green robes stained with dried potion traces. But their gazes were sharp.
"And for Merlin's sake, this is a hospital!" one of them exclaimed, pointing at the cigarette between Harry's fingers. "You can't smoke in here, you damn Auror!"
Harry cursed internally, crushing the cigarette against the stone wall and shoving it into his pocket.
"Relax." He raised his hands, trying to sound casual. "I'm just trying to work."
"'Work' by smoking in the coma ward?" the healer raised an eyebrow.
Harry held his stance, but he already knew he had lost his chance to follow Daphne. The healers walked past him, grumbling among themselves, shaking their heads. Harry glanced back at the door where she had disappeared. He wouldn't be able to get in now.
The corridor was silent when Harry returned to Adrian Rosier's room. The storm continued outside, thunder reverberating through the hospital like an omen. But inside, the silence was different. It wasn't calm. It was dense, charged with an uncomfortable expectation.
Harry closed the door behind him, his gaze fixed on the unconscious man in the bed. Adrian wasn't moving. But he knew it was a matter of time.
He pulled a chair close to the bed, his eyes alternating between the clock on the wall and the patient.
3:02 a.m.
The reports were clear: it was at this time that Rosier's vital signs started to fluctuate.
Why?
What was happening to him every night? Harry took his wand, keeping it firm on his knees. If something happened, he needed to be ready. And then, it happened.
Adrian moved. It was a small movement at first. His fingers twitched slightly. His breathing became more irregular. And then, his muscles started to shake.
Harry stood up, immediately alert.
"Rosier?"
The body twisted under the sheets, a tremor running through his limbs as if something was pulling the invisible strings of a puppet. His eyes remained closed, but his mouth opened and closed, murmuring something low, broken, impossible to understand.
Harry approached the bed, his hand tightening around his wand.
"Rosier, can you hear me?"
The young man stirred violently, his chest rising and falling as if he was fighting something invisible. Harry tried to touch him. The moment his hand touched Adrian's pale arm, his breathing stopped. Harry felt a shiver run up his spine. The silence was absolute. Adrian's heart wasn't beating. But then...
His lips moved. Words emerged in a weak, hoarse, broken whisper, as if coming from another world.
Harry leaned in to listen.
"They're here..."
The voice was a thread of air. Harry frowned.
"Who's here?"
Adrian didn't answer. But his body trembled again, his breathing returning irregularly. And then the door opened. Daphne Greengrass entered the room. The expression on her face was tense, but not surprised. She knew this would happen.
Harry turned to her, anger rising in his chest.
"What the hell is going on?"
Daphne didn't answer immediately. Her eyes remained fixed on Adrian, her gaze charged with something strange - guilt, perhaps.
"There's nothing we can do," she said quietly.
Harry clenched his fists.
"You knew this was going to happen."
Daphne looked away, biting her lower lip. She didn't deny it.
"This can't be stopped, Potter," her voice was a whisper. "We need to wait."
Harry felt frustration burning inside him.
"Wait?" He gestured to Adrian, who was still moving as if something was consuming him from the inside. "What the hell is happening to him?"
Daphne closed her eyes for a moment, as if gathering strength.
"He's... between two places."
Harry didn't like what that suggested.
"Two places?"
Daphne finally looked at him.
"His body is here. But his mind... isn't."
Silence hung between them, charged with more questions than answers. Harry still didn't understand. But he knew one thing.
~HP~
The silence dragged through the room, interrupted only by Adrian Rosier's incoherent murmurs. Harry stared at Daphne, his eyes narrowed, waiting for an explanation. But she remained standing near the door, arms crossed, her gaze fixed on Adrian.
Harry was not a patient man.
"Daphne." He forced his voice to stay calm. "What the hell did you mean by that?"
She finally turned to him. Her gaze was harder now, but there was something there, a hesitation, a poorly concealed fear.
"His body is here, Potter," she repeated, slower this time. "But his mind is not."
Harry's expression hardened.
"That doesn't make sense."
Daphne let out a sigh, running a hand over her face as if struggling to find the best way to explain.
"There are spells that can separate body and mind," she said at last. "Experiments that have studied this for years."
A cold shiver ran down Harry's spine.
"Experiments."
Daphne didn't confirm it, but she didn't deny it either. And that was enough. Harry stepped closer, reducing the distance between them.
"This has to do with the Department of Mysteries, doesn't it?" She didn't answer immediately. Harry felt his frustration grow. "You knew this would happen. You knew what would happen when the clock struck three in the morning."
Daphne took a deep breath.
"I knew he would react."
"And even so, you did nothing?"
Daphne's expression hardened.
"There is nothing we can do, Potter."
Harry scoffed, running a hand through his messy hair.
"For Merlin's sake, Greengrass, can you at least stop speaking in riddles?"
She held his gaze, but something in the way she pressed her lips together suggested she wanted to say more than she could.
"If I could, Potter…" She paused, as if reconsidering her words. "I already would have."
Harry didn't trust riddles. He trusted facts, evidence. But Daphne wasn't willing to give any. Not yet.
He looked at Adrian again. The young man was still trembling, his muscles tensed as if he were trapped in some kind of nightmare. Harry felt a tingling in his fingers. This wasn't normal. Nothing about this case was.
"Will he stay like this?" he asked, lowering his voice.
Daphne looked away.
"Until it's over."
Harry narrowed his eyes.
"Over what?"
She bit her lower lip, not responding. Harry let out an exasperated sigh.
"Great. So I just have to wait, then?"
Daphne didn't answer. But when she turned to the door, Harry noticed something different. The way her shoulders were tense. The way she looked at Adrian. It wasn't fear. It was guilt.
Harry stood there, feeling the weight of the conversation dissolve into the uncomfortable silence of the room. Daphne already had her back to him, hand on the doorknob. But she didn't leave immediately. For a moment, she seemed to hesitate. He didn't know if it was out of fear or because she was reconsidering something.
But then, she spoke.
"Go home, Potter."
Harry raised an eyebrow, surprised by her tone.
"I'm not going anywhere."
Daphne turned her head toward him, blue-gray eyes filled with something undefined.
"If you keep digging… you won't like what you find."
Harry gave a wry smile, crossing his arms.
"I've never liked anything I've found, Greengrass. But that's never stopped me."
Daphne's gaze lingered on him for another second, and then, she left. The door closed softly behind her. Harry felt frustration burning beneath his skin. She knew something. She knew a lot. And he was tired of waiting for answers no one wanted to give him.
He pulled a chair closer to Adrian Rosier again and sank into it, running his hands over his face. The young man's breathing was still unsteady, but his body had relaxed a little. Harry squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to organize his thoughts. The facts didn't fit together.
Daphne was involved. Mulciber had been treating Rosier from the beginning. The victims were all connected to St. Mungo's. And now, he had to accept that something was going on with Adrian Rosier.
Something that shouldn't be happening. Something no one wanted to explain.
Harry let out a long sigh, pulling a cigarette from his pocket. He rolled it between his fingers, lost in his own thoughts. But before he could light it, a low, hoarse sound filled the room.
He froze.
Slowly, he turned. Adrian was moving again. And then, he murmured something. The words were slow, confused, as if coming from very, very far away. Harry leaned forward.
"What?"
Rosier's voice came stronger this time.
"It's… coming."
A chill crawled up Harry's spine. He leaned in even closer.
"What's coming?"
Adrian didn't answer. He simply sank back into the bed, his breathing turning heavy again, his features rigid as if he had never spoken. Harry felt his own pulse quicken. He leaned back in the chair, pulling out the cigarette again. But this time, he couldn't bring himself to light it.
~HP~
The rain was beating against the windows of Grimmauld Place when Harry finally entered the house. He couldn't remember the last time he had truly slept. Maybe he hadn't slept at all.
The hours at the hospital had been long, and the morning had been even worse.
Dawlish was waiting for him at the Ministry, and the scolding began before he could even have his coffee.
"What the hell do you think you're doing, Potter?"
Harry barely blinked when Dawlish dragged him into an empty room, slamming the door shut.
"Doing my job?" he retorted, dryly.
Dawlish snorted, crossing his arms.
"You were found lurking in a restricted area of St. Mungo's in the middle of the night!"
Harry didn't respond. He didn't regret it. But he also knew he had crossed a line. Dawlish studied him for a moment, eyes narrowed.
"This isn't a game," he said, quietly. "You may be an Auror, but that doesn't give you the right to act like a damn independent detective."
Harry let out a dry laugh.
"Since when is solving murders optional for Aurors?"
Dawlish gritted his teeth.
"Since you started putting this case above direct orders."
Before Harry could respond, the door opened. Kingsley walked in, his expression serious, but without the impatient coldness of Dawlish. The Minister stared at the two of them for a moment before sighing.
"Dawlish, can you leave us?"
The older Auror looked ready to argue but then decided it wasn't worth it. He left, slamming the door behind him.
Harry leaned back in his chair.
"Are you going to suspend me?"
Kingsley looked at him for a moment before sitting down.
"No."
Harry raised an eyebrow.
"But I want you to take a few days off," Kingsley continued. "You've already realized the investigation has stalled."
Harry didn't respond immediately. He knew the case had hit a dead end. Every lead led to nowhere. Every question resulted in more questions. And, above all, the deaths had stopped. For now.
He ran a hand over his face, feeling the roughness of his unshaven beard.
"What if this isn't over?"
Kingsley kept his expression unreadable.
"Then you'll come back when necessary."
Harry knew he had no choice. When he left the Ministry, he wasn't in a good mood. But then, he saw the headline of the Daily Prophet. And his irritation turned into something worse. He tore open the seal of the newspaper and read the words printed in dark ink on the front page.
"SERIAL KILLER ON THE LOOSE? PATRICK VAISEY'S DEATH CONFIRMS MACABRE PATTERN"
Harry scoffed, clenching his fists. Of course. The press always had to turn everything into a spectacle. They never understood enough to be truly afraid. He crumpled the newspaper and tossed it onto the table in his living room. He wasn't taking any time off. Even without leads, he needed to keep going. Because something was waiting. And somehow, he knew the next death was already written.
Harry stared at the crumpled newspaper on the table, his eyes fixed on the headline that irritated him more than it should. The Ministry didn't want him to keep investigating. But the Ministry wasn't in the middle of this the way he was. He knew what he had seen. Vaisey didn't die by chance. He had felt the residual magic, that almost imperceptible trace no one else had noticed. Something killed him. And it wasn't an ordinary serial killer.
He picked up the newspaper again, unfolding it to read the full article.
"Patrick Vaisey, a clerk from the Department of Mysteries, passed away unexpectedly in the atrium of the Ministry of Magic, in front of dozens of witnesses. The sudden collapse and the terrified expression on the victim's face raised suspicions, and internal sources confirm that the case remains under investigation by the Aurors."
Harry rolled his eyes. Of course. A fancy way of saying that no one knew a damn thing. He kept reading.
"Although the Ministry has not issued an official statement, it is speculated that Vaisey may be the latest victim in a disturbing pattern of deaths, which includes Edgar Selwyn, Malcolm Burkes, and Helena Goshawk. So far, no confirmed suspects."
Harry tightened his grip around the paper, crumpling it even more. They listed the names—even without understanding how they were connected. They knew something was wrong. But no one, except him, was truly investigating.
He tossed the newspaper back onto the table, running a hand through his hair. He needed to act. But how, when every path he took ended in a dead end?
Harry grabbed a bottle of whiskey, pouring himself a drink before sinking into the couch. The alcohol burned his throat, but it didn't extinguish the unease inside him. If the murders had really stopped, did that mean the culprit had already gotten what they wanted?
Or were they just waiting for the right moment to continue?
He needed a new approach. If he couldn't move forward with the investigation, then he would do something else.
Follow the people involved.
Harry took another sip of whiskey, his mind already working on his new plan.
He would follow Daphne Greengrass. He would follow Mulciber. And, if necessary, he would follow Kingsley too.
Because, in the end, no one was exempt from this mess. And Harry wasn't going to stop. Not until he understood what the hell was going on.
~HP~
The silence of Grimmauld Place was suffocating.
Harry felt the weight of exhaustion, but fatigue wasn't enough to shut his mind off. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the papers scattered across the table.
Every clue, every death, every detail he had gathered was there, but none of it made sense. Not yet. He picked up one of the forensic reports, scanning the descriptions of the victims once again.
Edgar Selwyn. Malcolm Burkes. Helena Goshawk. Patrick Vaisey.
They all died the same way. Frozen, eyes wide open, terror etched into their faces. What did it mean? What had they seen before they died?
Harry pressed his fingers against his temples, trying to organize the flood of information. And then, he remembered his last conversation with Daphne.
"His body is here, Potter, but his mind is not."
He frowned. What the hell did that mean? She was talking about Adrian Rosier. Rosier, the only name in common among all the victims. Harry stood up abruptly, pacing back and forth, his brain working faster than ever.
There was something inside Rosier. Something that was separate from him. Daphne knew it. And Mulciber did too. But what if… the answer to all the deaths was precisely that?
What if what killed Selwyn, Burkes, and the others wasn't an ordinary murderer?
What if it was something that was already inside Rosier?
A spell.
Harry stopped in the middle of the room, feeling a chill run up his spine.
He had already thought about remotely activated spells, magic that could be triggered by specific cues. But what if the spell wasn't on the victims?
What if the spell had been in Rosier the whole time? And each of the deaths was a result of that?
Harry felt his heart race. The murders started when he began investigating Rosier. What if Rosier wasn't just a victim? What if he was the epicenter of everything?
He threw himself back into the chair, his mind burning. Every piece was starting to fit together. Daphne said his mind was separated. What if that was literal? What if someone had somehow separated Adrian Rosier's mind from his body? If he was trapped between two places, as Daphne suggested… what happened to those who got too close to the truth?
Harry grabbed his wand and conjured a parchment.
He needed to write this down. Because, for the first time since the investigation began, he finally had a real path to follow. And he knew exactly where to look for answers. The name had been there the whole time.
Mulciber. The man who had been treating Rosier from the beginning. The only one who knew everything. And now, Harry was certain he knew much more than he let on.
Harry sank into the chair, his mind still burning with the discovery. If he was right—and everything in him told him he was—then the deaths weren't random.
Selwyn. Burkes. Goshawk. Vaisey.
They weren't just victims. They were marked. And somehow, this was connected to Rosier.
Harry picked up a cigarette, twirling it between his fingers without lighting it. He needed confirmation. Something more solid than just a theory. The connection to Mulciber was the missing piece. The chief healer had been treating Rosier from the beginning. And Kingsley had mentioned that the Department of Mysteries had tried to interfere in the investigation even before forensics had finished.
Harry felt a chill creep up his neck. This wasn't a coincidence.
He grabbed the parchment where he had scribbled his theories and stared at it. It was madness. Separation between body and mind. Remotely activated spells. A killer who might not even be aware they were killing. But what if it was possible?
Harry stood up abruptly, heading to the bookshelf where he kept old case files. He pulled out one of the tomes on rare cases—one of the few records that had never been made public. Cases involving unusual spells, lost magic. He ran his fingers along the spines of the books until he found what he was looking for.
"Magical Transmigration and Alteration of Consciousness: Lost Studies of the 19th Century."
He opened the book, quickly flipping through the yellowed pages. It was a study on advanced forms of mind manipulation—magic that could transfer fragments of consciousness into other vessels or even keep it suspended, separated from the physical body.
Harry stopped at an underlined passage.
"Rare cases report that, under certain specific conditions, a wizard's consciousness can remain anchored in a liminal space, unable to cross into the physical world or into death. In these situations, the separated mind may manifest influences in the real world, even if the body remains in a vegetative state."
Harry's blood ran cold. This was possible. If Rosier was trapped between two states… If something in him was connected to all these deaths… It meant he wasn't just in a coma. He was killing. Even without knowing it.
Harry snapped the book shut abruptly, his thoughts spinning. He had to get back to the hospital.
Thunder exploded across the sky, rattling the house's windows as he slammed the book shut. He needed to move. The truth was right in front of him.
But before he could do anything, the sound echoed through the house.
BAM.
Harry spun around sharply.
The door of 12 Grimmauld Place trembled violently on its hinges, as if something was trying to tear it down.
Another crash.
BAM. BAM.
He tightened his grip on his wand. This wasn't normal. No one knocked on that door. No one should even know it was there.
Except that…
Harry cursed mentally. He had removed the old protections of the house. After the war, he wanted to leave the past behind. He wanted Grimmauld Place to be just a house. Now, someone was outside. And they knew exactly where he was.
With a quick spell, he extinguished the lights.
Another crash echoed through the house.
Harry silently approached the door, senses sharpened, wand firm in hand. He took a deep breath. Then, he turned the handle and opened it.
The rain hit like a cold blow, soaking the hallway floor. And there, standing at the entrance, was Daphne Greengrass.
Soaked to the bone, dark-blonde hair stuck to her pale face. Her eyes were rubbed raw with terror. There was a cut on the right side of her forehead, blood running down her face until it mixed with the water.
Her breathing was fast, lips slightly parted. Harry didn't move. She looked completely wrecked.
For a moment, neither of them said anything. Only the rain fell around them, the sound of thunder echoing in the distance.
Daphne finally broke the silence.
"I need your help."
A/N:
On my P4tr30n page, updates will follow a more consistent schedule.
Support me on P4tr30n: /writerofether
Follows, favorites, and reviews are deeply appreciated!
"And in case I don't see you — good afternoon, good evening, and good night."