CHAPTER 4
The Ministry of Magic was buzzing. That morning's Daily Prophet headline had spread like wildfire:
"MURDERER ON THE LOOSE: THE RETURN OF DARKNESS?"
Rumors circulated through the corridors, eyes filled with fear and suspicion. And in the midst of it all, Harry Potter was neck-deep in the investigation.
He entered the Auror Department under a chorus of hushed whispers. He could feel the gazes on his back—some curious, others wary.
Since the first murder, he had been working alone, dealing with scattered pieces that refused to fit together. Now, the case had grown too big to be ignored.
He walked straight to his office, ignoring the flood of questions the other Aurors seemed eager to ask. But before he could reach the door, someone stepped into his path.
"Potter, we need to talk."
Harry kept his expression neutral, but the exhaustion weighed heavily on him. Dawlish. The senior Auror—always meticulous, always suspicious.
"Can it wait?" Harry shot back, not slowing his pace.
"No." Dawlish extended the folded newspaper toward him. "The Prophet won't stop pressuring the Ministry. They want an answer. They want someone to blame."
Harry took the paper with a short sigh, scanning the sensationalist article. The paragraphs screamed absurd theories—ranging from a new follower of Voldemort to a rogue Dark spell killing on its own. He tossed the newspaper onto the nearest desk.
"The truth doesn't fit in headlines, Dawlish."
The Auror crossed his arms.
"I'm not talking about headlines. I'm talking about pressure. If we don't reach a conclusion soon, the Ministry will have to name a culprit. And you know how that works."
Harry knew. Scapegoats were made when necessary. And right now, he didn't trust anyone enough to be sure the Ministry wouldn't take the easy way out.
Dawlish continued, his voice laced with insinuation.
"You've been handling this alone for too long. Maybe it's time to share the case."
Harry clenched his jaw. So that was it, then? He knew that many in the department saw him as a symbol, but not as a real investigator.
Potter, the Boy Who Lived. Potter, the face of the Ministry's new era. But never Potter, the Auror who did the dirty work. And in that moment, he felt the exhaustion settle deeper on his shoulders.
"I'm close to finding a connection between the murders. If I need help, I'll ask."
Dawlish didn't look convinced. But before he could reply, a firm voice echoed down the corridor.
"If Potter says he's in control, then he is."
Kingsley Shacklebolt. The Minister of Magic strode toward them, as imposing as ever. Dawlish immediately fell silent, though his expression still carried doubt.
Kingsley stopped beside Harry, fixing Dawlish with a pointed stare.
"We're in a delicate situation, Dawlish. But we're not going to act like we did in the old days. We're not going to find a scapegoat just to appease public opinion."
Dawlish hesitated for a moment, then gave a curt nod before walking away. Harry let out a quiet sigh.
Kingsley turned to him.
"They're all over you, aren't they?"
Harry ran a hand through his messy hair, letting out a dry chuckle.
"Just a little."
Kingsley crossed his arms.
"You really have a connection between the victims?"
Harry nodded.
"It's not just a coincidence. All of them were at St. Mungo's in the past few years. But not as regular patients."
Kingsley raised an eyebrow.
"Then what were they?"
Harry took a deep breath before finally answering.
"Witnesses. Victims. Test subjects."
Kingsley was silent for a moment. Then, his gaze hardened.
"If that's the case… then someone is making sure they never talk."
Harry nodded.
"And I need to find out who. Before the next victim turns up."
The Minister studied him for a moment before giving a slow nod.
"Then go after it, Potter. But be careful. Because now… you're not just investigating a crime. You're stepping into something that might be much bigger than we imagined."
Harry knew that. And for the first time in the investigation, he felt the weight of what he was about to face.
~HP~
The Auror Department felt smaller than usual. Tension hung in the air, thick as smoke, as Harry returned to his office. Even after Kingsley had sent Dawlish away, he could still feel the eyes on him—heavy, filled with unspoken judgment.
The whispers didn't stop. He ignored them.
The door clicked shut behind him, and for a brief moment, the silence was a relief. His office was a mess. Reports scattered across the desk, scribbled notes on parchment, a cup of cold coffee abandoned beside an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts.
Harry took a deep breath, running his hands over his face. He was exhausted. But he couldn't stop. He grabbed a parchment and began reviewing the information again, his eyes hunting for patterns.
All the victims had been at St. Mungo's during Adrian Rosier's post-admission period. That wasn't a coincidence. But something was still missing. He would have to go through each of those records again.
His gaze drifted to the folder containing Malcolm Burkes' autopsy report. The forensic analysis confirmed what he already knew—Burkes had been poisoned. But something in the final details of the document made him pause. A note at the bottom.
"There were signs of modification in his nervous system before death. An unusual alteration, with no medical explanation."
Harry frowned. He grabbed another report—Edgar Selwyn's. No apparent cause of death. No marks on the body. But he, too, had exhibited nervous system alterations.
Selwyn had grown paranoid before he died. Burkes had discovered something and was killed. Helena Goshawk…
He pulled her file. No connection to the Dark Arts. No ties to the Ministry. The only link was that she had been hospitalized at St. Mungo's in the past.
Her body had been found floating in the lake, eyes open, her face frozen in pure terror. And then… there it was. Once again, the same inexplicable nervous system alteration.
A chill crept down Harry's spine. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
He pulled out a blank parchment and began making his own notes. What did they have in common?
All had been at St. Mungo's after Adrian Rosier's admission.
All had died with the same terror frozen on their faces.
Inexplicable nervous system alterations.
Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the dull throb of an oncoming headache. For a moment, his eyes caught movement in the corner of the room. A dark figure. Small. Fast.
He blinked—nothing. Just the messy pile of reports. He was exhausted. That was all. Leaning back in his chair, he stared at the photos pinned to the board in front of him. Selwyn's pale face. Burkes' lifeless eyes. Helena's drenched body.
The Ministry was trying to contain the rumors, but the murders were there, open wounds for anyone to see. The media had already spun its own version of events. But the truth was worse.
Because Harry had no idea what he was up against. Or worse—if he was already being watched.
Harry's office was suffocated by the stench of tobacco and cold coffee. The cigarette pack beside his desk was nearly empty, and the sheer number of scattered parchments made it difficult to even find space to rest his elbows.
He kept rereading the reports. Burkes' autopsy. Selwyn's autopsy. Helena Goshawk's autopsy. Each of them had died in different ways, yet there was an invisible thread linking their deaths—the inexplicable alteration in their nervous systems.
He grabbed a clean parchment and began writing, his handwriting growing more hurried as the connections formed in his mind.
Selwyn: accidental poisoning, increasing paranoia.
Burkes: killed by one of his own experiments, but altered before that.
Helena Goshawk: no apparent connection, yet the same nervous system modification.
This wasn't a coincidence.
Harry exhaled sharply, frustrated. No matter how many times he looked at the documents, the pieces were still out of place. He needed more. If someone inside St. Mungo's was involved, then there were records that wouldn't be in the main system. Records he could only get through… more direct access.
His gaze shifted to the pile of papers on the right side of his desk. Confidential files he wasn't supposed to have.
And he remembered exactly how he got them.
It had been a fun night. A glass of whiskey at the Leaky Cauldron, a conversation that started off innocently, a few well-placed compliments, and before he knew it, he was in the bed of a hospital administrator. Convincing her to get him some old records hadn't been difficult.
Harry smirked slightly, satisfied with his own cunning.
He picked up the illicit files and began flipping through them more carefully. And that was when he saw it. A detail he had overlooked. A small note, almost as if it wasn't meant to be there.
Each of the victims, at the time of their hospital admission, had been treated by the same Healer.
Alexander Mulciber.
Harry stopped. His eyes remained fixed on the name.
Mulciber.
The same man who had treated Adrian Rosier five years ago. The same man who led St. Mungo's most experimental treatments. The same man surrounded by secrets.
He grabbed a fresh parchment and scrawled a single question.
What if it wasn't a mistake?
What if Mulciber hadn't just treated these people—but marked them in some way?
The weight of the realization settled on his shoulders. Harry leaned back in his chair, took a drag from his cigarette, and exhaled the smoke slowly. He knew what he had to do.
Harry's gaze didn't leave the name. Alexander Mulciber. The name carried weight.
His father, Thorfinn Mulciber, had been one of Voldemort's most loyal Death Eaters. A specialist in mental magic, one of the greatest Legilimens of his generation—a man who believed the mind could be bent and shaped like a piece of wax.
Thorfinn was dead. But his son was not.
Alexander Mulciber hadn't followed in his father's footsteps—at least, not officially. He had never been a Death Eater. Never raised a wand against the Ministry. Never went to Azkaban.
On the contrary.
He had grown up in the academic circles of the wizarding world, became a Healer specializing in magical neurology, and years later took over as the head of the Department of Mental Illness and Deep Coma at St. Mungo's. And somehow, every single victim had passed through his hands.
Harry grabbed a new parchment and began to write.
Adrian Rosier: patient under Mulciber's care for five years.
Edgar Selwyn: treated by Mulciber after the poisoning.
Malcolm Burkes: had worked with Mulciber in the medical experimentation department.
Helena Goshawk: no apparent connection, but had been through the same neurology department.
Harry drummed his fingers against the desk. If Mulciber was involved, what exactly had he done to these people?
A sound broke the silence of the office. A quick knock on the door.
Harry straightened.
"Come in."
The door swung open, and a young Auror peeked in.
"Potter, there's an owl for you at reception. It's from St. Mungo's."
Harry stood immediately.
"Who sent it?"
"Mulciber's secretary."
His heartbeat quickened. He knew Mulciber didn't want to talk to him. Since the first official request, all he had received were vague responses and bureaucratic excuses. But now… Now Mulciber was calling him.
Harry grabbed his cloak and left the office without looking back. If that bastard finally wanted to talk, he wasn't about to waste the chance.
~HP~
Harry didn't like being ignored. And Alexander Mulciber had been ignoring him for days.
He stood in front of the healer's office door, fists clenched, patience slipping through his fingers like sand. The secretary remained motionless before him, blocking his way like a well-trained soldier.
"I've already told you, Mr. Potter. Mr. Mulciber cannot see you without a prior appointment."
Harry ran a hand over his face, fighting the urge to simply blast the door open. He couldn't afford to play dirty—not yet. But damn it, he wanted to.
"Listen carefully." He stepped forward, his voice lower, more controlled. Dangerous. "I'm investigating murders, and your boss's name keeps showing up in every single victim's records. Do you really think I'm just going to walk away?"
The witch didn't flinch.
"If Mr. Mulciber is involved, I'm sure he will cooperate with the investigation like any law-abiding citizen. But at this moment, he is unavailable."
Harry took a deep breath, his fingers itching to reach for his wand. He didn't want to threaten the secretary. But if he had to—he would. His eyes flicked to her wand, resting subtly on the desk. She wasn't unarmed. Which meant that if he tried anything now, he'd have a fight on his hands. But then—the office door opened.
"That won't be necessary, Potter."
The voice was low, measured, carrying a faint trace of disdain. Harry turned.
Alexander Mulciber stood before him.
The chief healer was younger than Harry had imagined, perhaps in his late thirties, with dark, neatly combed hair. His well-groomed beard gave him an air of calculation, and his eyes—deep, steely gray—were empty, like polished glass. There was little emotion in them. Little humanity.
"You want to talk to me?" Mulciber crossed his arms. "Very well. Let's talk."
Harry narrowed his eyes.
"In private."
The secretary looked like she was about to intervene, but Mulciber raised a hand, silencing her.
"Don't worry, Eleanor. I don't believe Auror Potter is going to curse me inside my own hospital."
Harry didn't respond. He simply followed Mulciber into his office.
Mulciber's office was cold and meticulous. Everything seemed precisely arranged—books lined up in perfect order, potion vials symmetrically placed on a glass shelf. There were no papers on the desk. No mess. Nothing that suggested any trace of humanity in that space.
Mulciber sat behind his desk, fingers interlaced over the polished wood.
"Very well, Auror Potter. What do you want to know?"
Harry didn't waste time.
"Where were you on the night of Edgar Selwyn's death?"
Mulciber raised an eyebrow, as if the question bored him.
"At the hospital, working. There are several witnesses who can confirm that."
"And Malcolm Burkes?"
"Also here."
"Helena Goshawk?"
Mulciber smiled slightly.
"I can provide you with records of my presence at the hospital if that would put you at ease."
Harry leaned back in his chair, studying the man in front of him. He had an answer for everything. Too precise. Too neat. But then… if his alibis were solid, what did that mean?
Harry narrowed his eyes.
"All the victims passed through you at St. Mungo's, Mulciber. Doesn't that seem like a dangerous coincidence?"
The healer remained unfazed.
"Coincidences don't concern me, Harry."
Harry clenched his jaw.
"Then what exactly were you doing with these people?"
Mulciber leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the desk.
"I treated them. That was my job. It still is."
Harry held his gaze.
"Treated… or tested?"
A brief silence. Then, Mulciber smiled. It was empty. Humorless.
"Are you implying that I'm behind these deaths, Auror Potter?"
"I'm implying that you know more than you're saying."
Mulciber didn't deny it. He only smiled.
"You see patterns where there are none, Potter. But go on—chase your ghosts."
Harry narrowed his eyes. This bastard knew something. He just couldn't prove it. But if Mulciber wasn't the killer, then someone was murdering people who had been under his care. Someone he might know. Or, worse… Someone who worked with him.
Harry rose slowly.
"If I find out you're hiding something, Mulciber… I'll be back. And I won't be here to talk."
The healer kept his cold, empty smile.
"And I'll be waiting."
Harry turned and walked out of the office, but something gnawed at him. The conversation had led him nowhere. But one thing was clear—Mulciber wasn't worried. Which meant he thought he was in control.
Harry didn't leave immediately. He stopped at the door, fingers still pressed against the handle, but his mind was hammering at the last piece he still needed to fit into place.
Rosier. Greengrass.
Slowly, he turned back.
Mulciber was still seated, fingers steepled before his mouth, as if he had already known that Harry wouldn't leave so easily.
"And Adrian Rosier?" Harry asked, his voice steady.
The healer raised an eyebrow.
"What about him?"
Harry took a step forward.
"You've been treating him for five years. A comatose patient who has survived longer than anyone else with similar injuries. And somehow, Selwyn mentioned him before he died."
Mulciber didn't blink.
"And that leads you to what, exactly?"
Harry didn't back down.
"He's connected to the murders. And you're connected to him."
Mulciber smiled slightly—that same empty smile, conveying nothing but calculated disinterest.
"Rosier is in a coma, Potter. A complete vegetative state. He couldn't have done anything."
"But he could have been a victim of something."
Silence settled between them.
Harry crossed his arms.
"If you have nothing to hide, I want unrestricted access to his case. Every report, every treatment adjustment, every decision made. And I want it now."
Mulciber tilted his head slightly.
"How convenient. But I'm afraid your authorization doesn't cover that."
Harry felt his blood heat.
"This isn't a request, Mulciber. If I have to get a warrant from Kingsley himself to tear this hospital apart for the truth, I will."
Mulciber's expression didn't change. But something in his eyes shifted. Just for an instant. Harry caught it.
Mulciber didn't like people digging into Rosier's case. And that was important.
The healer adjusted himself in his chair, running his fingers over his chin, as if weighing his options.
"If you want information on Rosier, I can arrange some things. But you'll have to wait."
"I don't like waiting."
"Patience is a virtue, Potter."
Harry held back the urge to draw his wand. Instead, he decided to play his last card.
"And Daphne Greengrass?"
The name filled the space between them like a thunderclap. For a moment—a single second—Mulciber's expression hardened. Harry saw it. And that was enough.
"She treated Selwyn too. She was also involved in Rosier's treatment. So tell me, Mulciber… is she at the center of all this, or was she just in the wrong place at the wrong time?"
Mulciber slowly uncrossed his fingers.
"Daphne Greengrass is a talented Healer. A wasted talent, if you ask me."
"That didn't answer my question."
Mulciber smiled again.
"You ask too many questions, Potter."
"And you avoid all of them."
Mulciber stood, adjusting his robes.
"I suggest you be careful not to lose yourself in empty theories. Sometimes, the answers we seek simply don't exist."
Harry clenched his jaw.
"Sometimes, they were just buried deep enough that no one would ever find them."
Mulciber let out a theatrical sigh.
"Then good luck digging, Auror Potter. But don't forget…" He leaned forward, his voice dropping to an almost imperceptible whisper. "Some truths aren't worth the price you pay for them."
Harry stared at him, unblinking.
Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and left the office, shutting the door behind him with a sharp click.
He didn't need anything else. Mulciber knew more than he was saying. And Daphne Greengrass wasn't just another name in this investigation.
She was a central piece.
Now, Harry just needed to find out why.
~HP~
The Atrium of the Ministry of Magic was crowded.
Harry strode across the polished marble floor, still turning over every word Mulciber had said. The scent of old parchment and bitter tea filled the air as employees bustled back and forth, many of them sneaking curious glances in his direction.
He ignored them all. All he wanted was to reach his office and sort out his thoughts.
But then—the scream tore through the hall.
A raw sound, thick with absolute terror.
Harry's wand was in his hand before he even thought about it, his body spinning toward the source of the sound.
In the center of the atrium, a man was trembling violently, his hands clawing at his own hair, as if trying to rip something invisible from his head. His eyes were wide—but they saw nothing. The crowd froze around him.
"Somebody do something!" a Ministry worker shouted, stumbling back.
Harry moved first.
The man—Patrick Vaisey, he realized—was muttering something incomprehensible, his fingers twitching like talons, scraping his own face.
"Vaisey!" Harry called, trying to reach him.
But his eyes were locked onto something that wasn't there. His lips trembled, frantic whispers spilling out between gasping breaths:
"No… no… it's here… it's here…"
A cold shiver crawled down Harry's spine. The same expression. The same absolute terror that had been frozen on Selwyn's face. On Burkes'. On Helena Goshawk's.
"Vaisey! Look at me!"
Harry drew his wand.
"Finite Incantatem!"
The magic dissipated into the air—but nothing changed. Vaisey shook violently. And then… he stopped. His body stiffened, his head lolling backward, wide eyes staring at the golden ceiling of the atrium. One second of absolute silence.
Then, he collapsed. The impact echoed across the hall.
Someone screamed. Another stumbled away, running. Chaos began to spread. But Harry was already kneeling beside the body. Vaisey wasn't breathing. His eyes remained wide open, his mouth slightly parted, as if his final attempt to speak had died on his lips. It was like looking at a corpse that hadn't yet realized it was dead.
Harry felt the weight of his wand in his hand. This had happened right in front of him. The first death he had witnessed in real time. And yet—no one had touched Vaisey.
No visible spell. No detectable magic. Just terror.
He slowly passed his wand over the body.
"Homenum Revelio."
Nothing.
"Vestigia."
For a moment, his wand flashed… and then hesitated. Something was there. Faint. Imperceptible to most. But Harry wasn't most people. He saw it. A trace of magic so subtle it shouldn't exist.
"Shit."
He straightened, his eyes fixed on the emptiness before him, that same cold creeping down his spine. And then—the Ministry reacted.
The Aurors arrived first, their dark robes billowing as they moved in.
"Step back!" one of them shouted.
But Harry didn't move. His eyes were still locked on the body.
Then came the Unspeakables. They moved differently from the others—long cloaks sliding across the floor, metal masks concealing their faces. They said nothing. They only watched. One of them knelt beside the body, fingers gliding just above the skin, never touching. Harry knew them. Researchers from the Department of Mysteries. And if they were here, it meant they knew more than they were letting on.
Then—Kingsley arrived. The Minister of Magic strode into the hall, his steps steady, his expression serious and controlled. The murmurs died. All eyes turned to him. But Kingsley only looked at Harry.
"Tell me what happened."
Harry rose slowly. The stench of death lingered in the air. He holstered his wand and met Kingsley's gaze directly.
"It's the same thing."
The Minister's eyes narrowed.
"You saw it?"
Harry nodded.
"It wasn't an ordinary spell. It didn't leave normal traces. But it was magic."
The Unspeakables exchanged glances. Kingsley's eyes flickered toward them before he took a step closer to Harry.
"You think the Department of Mysteries is involved."
It wasn't a question. Harry held his gaze.
"They got here too fast to deny it. Especially for something that 'isn't related' to them."
The silence between them was heavy. But Kingsley didn't answer immediately. He just looked at the body. Then at the Unspeakables. And finally, he let out a long, weary sigh.
"Come with me, Potter."
And in that moment, Harry knew. He was about to hear something no one else knew.
~HP~
Harry followed Kingsley without hesitation. The Minister's eyes were hard, lacking their usual measured calm. Something was bothering him deeply.
They walked through the atrium, leaving behind the murmuring staff and the silent presence of the Unspeakables.
Kingsley pushed open a side door, leading Harry into a narrow corridor, far from the bustling areas of the Ministry.
No one followed them.
When they reached a small, windowless office—bare, undecorated, just a simple wooden desk and a single chair—Kingsley shut the door with a silent spell.
Harry leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
"Are you going to tell me what the hell is going on?"
Kingsley didn't answer immediately. Instead, he slid a hand inside his cloak, retrieving an aged parchment, sealed with black wax.
Harry didn't need to ask to know it was important. Kingsley held it out—but didn't let go immediately. His eyes locked onto Harry's.
"Don't read it here."
Harry frowned.
"What?"
"Only open it when you're home."
The seriousness in his voice sent a chill down Harry's spine. Harry took the parchment, feeling the weight of the thick paper in his hands.
"What the hell is in here?"
Kingsley took a step back, running a hand over his shaved head.
"I can't say."
Harry raised an eyebrow.
"Can't or won't?"
Kingsley clenched his jaw.
"I shouldn't even have this. Getting it… required a sacrifice."
The tension in the air was suffocating.
Harry's fingers tightened around the parchment.
"Sacrifice? Whose?"
The Minister didn't answer. Harry felt unease creeping up his spine.
"Kingsley, you know something you're not saying."
Kingsley closed his eyes briefly.
"There are things buried, Potter. Things that were meant to stay forgotten. But you…" he exhaled sharply. "You've dug too deep."
Harry narrowed his eyes.
"And what do you want me to do?"
Kingsley glanced at the door, as if making sure no one was listening. Then, his voice dropped to a whisper.
"Be careful. Read it. Think before you act."
Harry huffed, frustrated.
"You talk as if I don't have a choice."
Kingsley gave him a weighty look.
"Because maybe this time, you don't."
Silence fell between them. Harry gripped the parchment tighter, feeling the weight of whatever was inside. He hated riddles. He hated half-answers. But he hated Kingsley's tone even more.
The Minister straightened his posture, his usual composure returning.
"Now go."
Harry held his gaze for a few more seconds. Then, without another word, he turned and left. But as he walked through the Ministry corridors, the sealed parchment clutched tightly in his hand… he knew—whatever was written inside would change everything.
~HP~
Harry reached his office faster than he could even process. He threw his cloak over the chair and, without thinking, grabbed a full inkwell and hurled it against the wall.
The ink exploded in a black stain, slowly dripping down the cold stone.
He could barely breathe. What the hell was happening?
Harry ran his hands over his face, his fingers pressing into his temples. Patrick Vaisey had died right in front of him. No wand raised. No visible spell. Just pure, brutal death. And he had felt it this time. He had felt the magic. But what was it?
He began pacing the office, heavy steps echoing against the stone walls. He grabbed the old reports, scattering them across the desk. He flipped through them aggressively, the sound of pages turning in a frenzy. His mind refused to form a logical connection.
Something wasn't fitting. And then— A snap. Not a real sound. A mental snap.
His eyes landed on a crumpled piece of parchment on the floor. He snatched it up, still breathing heavily. It was an old case report. An investigation into spells that could be cast remotely.
His heart skipped a beat. Harry remembered.
At the Auror Academy, he had studied ancient cases of delayed magic activation. It was rare. Extremely rare. But it existed. Spells that could be cast onto a person, but would only take effect hours, days, or even weeks later. His blood ran cold. The victims. Every single one of them could have been marked before they died. There was no need for a spell cast in the moment. No need for a killer to be present at the exact time of death.
But what was this magic? He didn't know. Not yet.
Harry narrowed his eyes. This wasn't an ordinary curse. It felt like something much, much worse. What if… it was connected to the nervous system itself? He pushed the thought aside. No. That was impossible. Or at least… he hoped it was.
He fell into his chair, the cigarette already lit before he even realized it. The smoke lingered in the air, curling and twisting in front of the window. He stared at the ceiling, letting his thoughts race. If the death didn't happen immediately… Then the killer could be out there the entire time.
Anyone. Anywhere. Marking their victims. And Harry Potter had to figure out how to stop the next one from dying.
He ran a hand through his messy hair, cigarette hanging from his lips as he tried to force his brain to make sense of it all. The theory made sense. Marked before death. But how?
His fingers tapped against the desk, watching the smoke spiral lazily into the air. If it was a delayed spell, there should be some magical signature left behind. And he had found one. A trace so subtle it was almost imperceptible. Which meant… someone knew how to hide it.
Harry took a deep breath, feeling the burn of the cigarette between his fingers. There were very few known curses that could be activated over time.
He remembered a case from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement—an investigation into cursed objects that only triggered after a delay. But that was different. That involved artifacts. This wasn't the same. This was different.
He grabbed Selwyn's autopsy report, flipping through it rapidly, his eyes darting across the pages. No cursed objects. No magical poisons. But something caught his attention.
In the body analysis, the victims' brains showed unusual traces of magical activity. Nothing clear enough to be concrete evidence. But something was there.
Harry clenched his cigarette between his teeth as he pulled another report—Burkes' autopsy this time. The same traces. The same invisible residue. His heart pounded.
If it wasn't a contact curse… If it wasn't an object curse… What if it was a curse on the mind itself?
A cold shiver crawled down his spine. But that didn't make sense. Mental magic was extremely difficult to master. Only a handful of wizards in history had ever gained the kind of control needed to directly influence someone's mind like this.
Advanced Legilimency could invade memories. Occlumency could protect a mind. But this? This was something else entirely. Something he had never seen before.
Harry pressed his fingers against his eyes, trying to dispel the tension pounding in his head.
The victims had died without touch. Without a visible spell. Without any obvious connection. And yet… They had been marked. But when? And how?
He reached for his coffee—only to find the cup empty.
"Shit."
Whatever this magic was, It wasn't ordinary. And worse… It wasn't something he understood.
Harry took a deep breath. He needed to get home. He needed to read the parchment Kingsley had given him. He needed immediate answers.
And there was only one place to start looking.
A/N:
On my P4tr30n page, I've already released chapters 5 to 8. Updates will follow a more consistent schedule.
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