Out of the Night that Covers Me

Out of the Night that Covers Me

by Mephistedes


WARNING: Contains spoilers for Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.


Written for the HD_Inspired Animagus Fest on LiveJournal.

.:.

I. Sodding Patience

.:.


Most days, he wished he’d have heeded the niggling voice in the back of his mind warning him to just stay in bed.

Tonight, Harry Potter thought he definitely should have listened.

Not because he was staring at a murder scene. Oh, no: he was used to seeing bodies both suspiciously neat and unbelievably bloody — this one was half and half — in his line of work.

Not because he was summoned to duty in the wee small hours of the morning, when even his best mate Ron would jinx him something nasty for having the gall to disrupt his sleep. He was used to being up this late; or early, anyway.

And not because he had better things to do. Sleep wasn’t on his agenda for at least a few more hours (during which Hermione would badger him about ‘not being productive enough’ and try to guilt him from sleeping). As well, he had developed a particularly bothersome headache from an incessant ringing in his ears; one particularly resilient against Headache Potion. He’d resigned himself to an early night of Gobstones when he’d been called here, to a tiny patch of forest west of Ashbourne.

Yet Harry knew he should have trusted his gut and locked himself up in Grimmauld Place for at least another month, because of one person. Or rather, one person’s mouth.

“If you want my opinion — ”

“No, I didn’t ask for — ”

“It looks like the open King case from a few months ago, or the Hutchinson case. If you ask me, I think this was done by that new extremist cell, what do they call themselves? Oh! The Serpents of Black Knight. Pfft! More like the Sore Losers of Wrong Side, heh heh. D’you want to know what I think? If you ask me — ”

“I’m not going to...”

“I would have come up with a moniker far more interesting and unobtrusive than these Slytherins have — ”

“...but you’ll ignore me anyway.”

“ — and I do believe this was done by Slytherins. It reeks of old hostility that’s been building up for years. I was talking to old Theodore Nott — you remember Nott?”

“If I say yes, will you shut — ?”

“Stringy boy, kept mostly to himself, you know. Wasn’t in old Sluggy’s club, but a damn fine huntsman nowadays.”

“And quiet, too. He was very quiet.”

“Old Uncle Tibe used to say, ‘It’s the quiet ones you’ve got to mind.’”

“And the chatty ones you’ve got to curse.”

“Real sneaky-like, they are, Slytherins; and, of course, I’ve always said so, but no one listens to me....”

“I often wonder why that is, McLaggen.” Harry dryly said as he carded his fingers through his messy hair.

Naturally, it was the hand belonging to the same arm to which his wand was strapped. As the light fabric of his robe slipped slightly down his forearm, Harry found it difficult not to let a tiny bit of his grin seep through as McLaggen’s dark eyes zeroed in on the menacing sight his wand must have imposed.

“I’m sorry,” Harry feigned obliviousness as he pushed his glasses higher up his nose — yes, with the very same hand. Was he enjoying this? Of course he was. “You were saying?”

As McLaggen slowly shook his head, his fingers loosening the button at the neck of his robes, Harry smirked. It was hard not to, what with McLaggen’s eyes still glued warily to his right forearm. (Was it too much to scratch around the length of the wood? It was a bother sometimes, itchy and chafing up his flesh and all. Well, it would’ve been itchy had Hermione not given him that Anti-Chafing Spell six years ago.)

McLaggen’s gaze shifted from his wand and he warily met Harry’s eyes before he turned to the scene, face a disagreeable pink from quiet fuming and his mouth tightly sealed. Harry wet his lips through a smirk and shook the billowy cloth back over his arm, crossing them both as he set out to do his job. He could survive the night with McLaggen after all; he understood the tacit message and was going to be quiet.

Hopefully.

For more than five minutes. Again, hopefully. With a last sideways glance at the stiff-jawed wizard, Harry blew a weary breath and eyed the scene, narrowing his focus to his duties.

But more and more as the minutes ticked by, he found his mind wandering to everything but the task at hand. He even questioned why he’d responded to Cottenham’s firecall tonight, especially when he knew McLaggen would be here, having been appointed to the same Auror team.

Hell, Harry could still feel the burn of Firewhisky going down and coming back up hours later on the night the groupings had been announced. To this day, Kreacher still hadn’t been able to scrub out the smell in Mrs. Black’s hangings.

Harry winced at the miserable — and still somewhat fuzzy memory, resisting the urge to throw dirty looks at his colleague and steering his focus on the murder scene. The sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could leave. Provided McLaggen kept his mouth shut.

“I say we first interview the village Muggles, see what they know. Window’s broken, too, might be able to get the suspect’s blood off the glass — ”

“Oh, my God ... five minutes!” Harry incredulously burst out, rounding on the piqued wizard. “Five minutes, and you can’t even keep your mouth shut for one!”

“Now, if I were you — ”

Harry scoffed, idly shaking his head. “Merlin! That’d be a nightmare, ha.”

“Now, see here, Potter — ”

“No, you listen,” Harry growled lowly, all his patience for the meddler frittered away. He had the bizarre urge to rise on his tiptoes and poke McLaggen hard in the chest, but held himself back. Maybe later. “Last time I checked, I was still the S.T.A.G. on duty.”

“I know that, Potter,” McLaggen seethed, his dark eyes narrowing into slits so thin Harry was amazed he could even see through them. “The Daily Prophet seems to enjoy reporting that fact every single week, right beside full-page adverts of Wizard’s Quarterly models. Honestly, how can you be a Stealth Auror if the Prophet keeps glorifying the details of your post? Even so, I was merely offering — ”

“Your invalid and inexpert opinion,” Harry smoothly cut in with a dark look. “For the last time, get this straight, McLaggen: you, S.P.A.R.C.,” Harry took mild delight in speaking to him as if he were a five-year-old, jabbing a sharp finger in his broad chest. “Me, S.T.A.G.: Level One S.T.A.G., to be exact. A Level One Stealth Auror to your Level Three S.P.A.R.C.: d’you know what that means? That means I don’t take orders from you.”

He could have laughed at the look of pure loathing McLaggen was giving him, but he didn’t. Wouldn’t do to anger him in the midst of a murder scene. He was tempted, though.

“Come off your high horse, Potter. I only wanted — ”

“To do my job. Sorry, but the position’s been filled ... or have you forgotten, Cormac?” He lightly returned, darting a brief glance at the other Aurors taking stock of the incident. He’d be a fool to think they weren’t listening in, poised to spread the gossip to the other departments by sundown tomorrow. Just another perk of being himself, he supposed.

McLaggen gave him a cold smile. “You’re trial S.T.A.G. Intelligence, or did you forget?” A full sneer slid across the Auror’s face as McLaggen drew to his full height — he had, at most, a forehead’s width on him — and smugly folded his beefy arms.

“It’s just temporary, Potter: to see if you’re fit for the job. Which, as we all know,” Harry rolled his eyes as McLaggen’s voice rose several octaves and he haughtily surveyed the handful of Aurors now dutifully trying to pretend to do their job, “should have gone to me. And it would have been me had you not wormed your way into the Minister’s good graces and wowed Cottenham with your Golden Boy routine — ”

“No,” Harry loudly contended. If McLaggen wanted to get hot, he had better prepare to handle the Fiendfyre fury Harry could feel boiling beneath the surface. “You lost the bid because you were the idiot who Stunned the Bulgarian Minister and stuffed him in a broom cupboard — ”

“It was a perfectly valid hunch — ”

“ — because you thought he was an Inferius.” Harry finished over him, uncaring of the wide eyes glued to them.

“It was a good call.”

“He was pasty.”

“I’m telling you, that man was an Inferius!”

“Yeah.” Harry affected concurrence with an exaggerated nod. “Because all Inferi wear business robes, walk freely in firelight, and speak perfect English.”

“He — ”

“McLaggen, just do your job; preferably with your mouth closed.” He ordered, finally moving away from the spluttering wizard. They needed to get their jobs done and deal with any Muggles before dawn, and Harry knew he certainly couldn’t do that with McLaggen spouting foul left and right. Enough was enough.

Of course, McLaggen didn’t think so. “Excuse me! I’ll have you know that I am still — ”

Blowing out an explosive breath, Harry rubbed his face in his hands and huffed. If only he could just hex him. Just hex him … maybe he would tell Cottenham that his wand slipped his grasp....

“Did you ward the plot for Muggles?”

McLaggen blinked, confusion marring his usually haughty countenance before he inelegantly replied, “Well, no, I — ”

“Sweep the cottage for spell-traps?”

He shook his head. “No, but — ”

“Preserved the bodies with magic?”

“No...”

“Round up any Muggles in town who might’ve seen something? Chronicled the stock of the house for evidence? Used your Dark Detectors during your preliminary sweep?”

“Well, not yet, but anyway — ”

“McLaggen,” Harry began, his tone deceptively calm. “You are compromising this entire investigation by not following procedure. Your title is Special Auror Reconnaissance Corpsman: you survey the area and report to me, the senior member onsite from the Stealth-Trained Aurors Guild. Since you have naught to report, I suggest you get to it, or go home.

“And if you want,” his voice swelled a bit louder when McLaggen looked ready to protest, “go tell Shacklebolt. I’m sure the Minister would love to take time out from enacting new protection laws and forging new alliances with other wizarding governments to settle your childish dispute with my job.”

With a final, poignant stare, Harry spun around to study the crime scene. Every last bit of him was steaming to turn back around, to put McLaggen in his place, with force if he had to, but the young S.T.A.G. merely unclenched his fists and eased a slow breath past his lips. Patience: that’s all he needed. Just patience.

He could do this. He could handle McLaggen without flashing his wand and battling him in a title war in return. He was going about it the wrong way; that was it. McLaggen just needed a firm hand. Fighting would solve nothing and would endanger their investigation, and the last thing he wanted was to compromise months of —

“A job you got on a technicality!”

Harry’s eyes slowly slid shut. Sod patience.

“Level One S.T.A.G. — pfft!” McLaggen’s foolish tone swelled in his mind. “You’re a joke, Potter; you don’t even have the Animagus requirement to be a Stealth Auror!”

That ringing in his ears seemed to intensify, feeding his headache; was that what rage sounded like when its top had blown?

“If you didn’t have that scar on your forehead, you’d be driving the bloody Knight Bus for the rest of your life! I don’t care who you are, you do not order me about like some — ”

“ENOUGH!”

All the other Aurors’ puttering ground to a halt, leaving room for his roar to bounce hollowly off the wooden walls. He could tell they were staring, more than shocked, but Harry didn’t care. He didn’t care that his nostrils had flared so much that he could feel his nose hairs furling and unfurling; he didn’t care that he was squeezing his fists so tight his nails drew blood; he certainly didn’t care that he didn’t remember whipping out his wand. Since the death of Voldemort six years prior, Harry couldn’t recall a time when he had felt so furious.

But what wound him up even more was the baffled look on McLaggen’s face, as if stunned he was being treated like this.

Harry knew in that moment not a jury in the world would convict him if he’d spelled McLaggen dead right now. He was sorely tempted.

“The next time I say your name,” Harry was too far gone to be startled by the amount of pure loathing thickly dripping from each syllable, “it’ll be preceded by the word Accio, followed by me Summoning something of yours that I guarantee you will deeply miss. Do — I — make — my — self — clear, McLaggen?”

His glasses had slipped down a bit from the light sweat beading on the bridge of his nose, so he could only half-see McLaggen’s reaction. But he undoubtedly heard the response that greeted him: charged silence.

Harry could already feel the warmth of his wand’s magic throbbing bitterly within the holly it was confined. Sod — patience, sod — patience, he could imagine its core thumping.

“Er ... I’d say ‘yeah’ if I were you, mate.”

Harry’s green eyes flicked to one of the wizards on the other side of the room that had broken the silence. The young man met his stare without the tiniest shred of trepidation, impressing Harry only slightly. He did have other matters at hand, after all.

His gaze flitted back over to the angry S.P.A.R.C.: to his puce-colored face and his balled hands and his quivering jaw (would they let him choose his own cell in Azkaban provided McLaggen was that stupid?), and finally his back, as McLaggen turned away, manhandling his wand as he started spinning Muggle-Repelling Charms around the cottage.

Harry watched him for a few minutes, mildly amused as the disgruntled Gryffindor snarled spells between gritted teeth and brandished his wand so wildly he exploded a stack of papers on a nearby table. (That was certainly going on his record.) And speaking of exploding.... His attitude immediately fell serious as he remembered the job he’d come to do.

“You, there.” He frowned, soberly inclining his head at the one who’d brought an end to his and McLaggen’s escalating row. “Fall out.” Harry called as he raised the hem of his navy robes, skirting around a puddle of blood and yellowish liquid. As well beside the body, there was something furry and matted with red. Brow creasing, Harry carefully kneeled over the corpse, taking time to eye any outward oddities on the lump of body as he waited for the young apprentice.

Only when he heard the telltale sound of rustling paper did Harry stand and notice the young man was weighed down with scrolls, quills, and a fraying Bottomless Bag to hold evidence. Quite obviously, he was the new kid. Harry could very clearly recall his first year in the Auror program when his most important duty was to tail the seasoned Aurors like an anxious pup and field their coffee orders.

Wincing at the recollection of beatings his hands and self-esteem had taken back then, Harry took pity on the wide-eyed wizard, proffering his arms. “Here, let me — ”

“Oh, no, I just couldn’t, sir.”

“Trust me, I’ve been there.” The Gryffindor understatedly replied as he collected half the scrolls from the sandy-haired Auror. “And you are?”

“Perkins, Gareth Perkins. First year. Auror, that is. It’s my first investigation!” The excitable wizard beamed, shoving a bunch of rolls under his chin to extend his hand. A slight pang tugged at Harry then, and for the briefest of seconds he was back in his second year, sitting with Ron and Hermione in the courtyard when he’d felt the strangest feeling he was being watched.

The culprit then had been mousy Colin Creevey, annoyingly aflutter, camera glued to his hands and mouth churning out words a mile a minute all those years ago. But he had mellowed a lot since then, before he died....

With a faint shake of his head, Harry shifted his thoughts to the present and queried, “First investigation, eh? You don’t look nauseous.”

“Oh, well ... strong stomach, sir.”

“Really? That’s nigh on unseen in first years,” Harry commented, smiling kindly. “You shadowing someone?”

“Special Auror McLaggen, sir.”

“Oh, then you haven’t learnt a thing, have you?” he dryly grumbled under his breath, shooting McLaggen’s back a cross frown. “Asked you to call him ‘Special Auror,’ did he?”

“Demanded it, really,” the younger replied in a failed whisper. “But no need to ask you who you are: you’re Harry Potter, o’ course!” Gareth continued in a louder tone of breathless wonder, his eyes at once combing his hairline. “Everyone knows who you are!”

As Harry smiled weakly and shook his hand, he could’ve sworn he heard a faint scoff from McLaggen’s general area. Perhaps McLaggen wanted another glimpse of his wand; this time, in action?

Pasting on an uncomfortable grin, Harry went on to ask, “Ahem, now Gareth ... can you tell me exactly what that is?” He nodded at the furry mess near the corpse. It was unusual for a victim’s pet to be murdered; not that he saw things like this on a regular basis. Why murder a silent witness? Not as if an animal’s testimony could hold up in trial.

“That? Oh. That, is ... um...” Harry gnawed on his lower lip, darting sidelong glances at McLaggen to make sure he was still working. Judging by the scowl on his face (and the scorch marks on the sofa), he’d say the proud Auror still was. “A-a dog? I reckon.”

“You reckon?”

“Well ... yeah,” Gareth answered, his brow furrowed. “Four legs. Furry. Dog.” He nodded decisively before cocking his head and adding, “Or a very ... large cat. Well, I hope it’s a dog, heh. I’ve got a cat, meself.”

“Biased?”

“Just a bit,” the young Auror returned with a silly snicker.

Harry threw him a very wry look before adjusting the parchment in his arms. The last thing he needed were bloody scrolls on file at the Ministry. McLaggen would be sure to tell their overseer, Cottenham, who would never let him hear the end of it. “And the victim?” he tipped his head to the body. The face was covered in hair and blood and was too unusually bulbous for him to garner any recognition.

“Fawcett’s in the bedroom, still looking into that sir — Mister — er, Stealth Auror Po — ”

“Harry.”

“ ... Harry.” His name was spoken in the same reverent manner that had come to exasperate him. Almost seven years had passed since Voldemort’s demise and the fawning hadn’t died with it. Harry forced himself to focus on the task at hand rather than roll his eyes and huff in annoyance; the less fuel he fed McLaggen’s fire, the better. “But we are sure it is a man.”

Harry arched an eyebrow and slid his gaze to the proudly nodding trainee. “Do I even want to know how you figured that out?”

Gareth’s brow twitched slightly as he answered, “Hairy legs.”

At this, Harry couldn’t help the amused huff that escaped him. “So? My best mate’s mum has got an aunt with hairy legs. In fact, you could make a winter coat from the left one....”

“Ha! Bringing up personal business during — ”

McLaggen’s latest dispute was effectively cut short when Harry raised a familiar hand to his chin, miming a thoughtful pose. Before his sleeve could fully skate down his wand, McLaggen was once again tugging at his robes and casting spells and seething in purple-faced silence.

“Is it true, sir?” Gareth broached in a hasty whisper, precariously balancing new rolls of parchment dumped on the Bottomless Bag. Harry’s forehead creased, irritation nipping at him; he’d have to have a chat with Cottenham about the mistreatment the newer trainees were still catching. No way was he letting this go on, regardless of how annoying Gareth was.

“Your arms are big enough to carry your own things, you know.” Harry growled at a now red-faced Auror, who hastily dropped his things off with a bulgy-eyed Gareth and skipped out of sight.

“Is what true?” he absently returned, catching several falling scrolls before they contaminated the scene.

“What he said.”

“He didn’t say anything; although, I thoroughly wish he had....”

“No; what McLaggen said,” Gareth’s tone had lowered to a stage whisper, his dark eyes sprinting across the room to said Auror. Even now, Harry was aware that the noise of conversation had gone down considerably at Gareth’s too-inquisitive query. He swallowed, averting his eyes to the still nameless victim. He knew exactly to what Gareth was referring. “Not that it’s any of my business,” the trainee tacked on quickly.

“Which it probably isn’t.”

“Right, right. Wrong of me to even ask, forgive me,” Gareth sputtered and jerkily shook his head, crushing some of the scrolls in his anxiousness. Harry half rolled his eyes and aimed a dry look at the faintly shaking boy.

“Just ask, Perkins.”

“I — are you sure?” Harry simply raised an eyebrow in response. Gareth’s chest puffed out as he took a mighty breath, comically preparing himself. Again, Harry tried not to dwell on how much he resembled Colin in that moment. “Okay. Do you ... have an Animagus form? I mean, it is a requirement for S.T.A.G., from what I’ve heard. Unless ... well, it wouldn’t matter, considering everything that you’ve done for us all, I mean, I wouldn’t care....”

“You’re rambling.”

The young Auror nodded feverishly, looking almost green. “Yes, sorry, quite sorry, I should know better, sir — ”

“And you kiss a lot of arse, too.” Harry pointed out.

“I’ll stop if you want me to, sir.”

Though somewhat peeved at the young Auror’s probe into his personal business, Harry cracked a tiny smile at him, conveying he harbored no ill will.

“Right, then,” Harry loudly proclaimed as he dumped the lot of his armload on the settee. “It looks like Fawcett’s never getting out of the bedroom, so we’ll just check the body, shall we? Maybe there’s a clue there that leads us to whatever this,” he nodded to the furry mess, “is. Put that stuff down — yes, it’s all right ... no, I’m not having you on....”

“A-a-all right, but you ... said I could ask — ”

“Yep.” Harry curtly replied, leaning forwards to inspect the supine body. “I said you could ask; I never said I’d answer.”

“Uh, of course. Completely insensitive of me, sir, I shouldn’t have — ”

Rolling his eyes, Harry tiredly interjected before the boy worked himself into a psychotic break. “Just come here, Perkins.”

“On my way, sir.”

“Harry.”

“Yes, s — uh ... Harry.”

“All right, squat down here and show me how you check pockets without disturbing the scene....”

Harry spent the next hour schooling Perkins on protocol and firing off questions to test his knowledge and reaction time, while keeping an eye on McLaggen. He’d made a handful of attempts to butt in, but luckily Harry’s wand mysteriously made its appearance right as McLaggen’s mouth would open.

Otherwise, the only suspicious evidence on the victim were small specks of hard earth in their hair; as well, there was an odd stench coming off him that Harry could not ever recall smelling on fresh bodies. It wasn’t an overwhelming scent, but it was enough of a bother to warrant McLaggen shooting Aeration Charms around the room once.

Further inspection found their person to show no outward signs of physical trauma. In fact, if it weren’t for the bloody mess of a face, Harry would say the victim found the wrong end of the Killing Curse.

“Potter.” He swung round to face the bedroom from where Fawcett had called. “In here.”

His brow furrowing at her solemn tone, Harry motioned for Gareth to follow, the younger Auror jumping up to tail him a tad too eagerly. He could see McLaggen inching his way towards the door, but knew he legally couldn’t stop him from joining.

Whether he liked it or not, McLaggen was a higher-level Auror, and part of the investigation. Granted, Harry thought his tasks were more along the lines of a glorified butler, reconnoitering sites and towing bodies from the crime scenes to the Ministry. Still, having the smug man around was difficult to stomach....

The tight bedroom was dimly lit by Fawcett’s wand, casting harsher angles to everything in the room from her laugh-lined face to the sparse furniture. Whoever had lived here certainly liked things simple: plain bed, bedside table, and a tiny wardrobe tucked under a shabbily-curtained window. A curious pile of what appeared to be worn out robes sat at the foot of the bed, which Harry found he wouldn’t have noticed had Gareth not stopped McLaggen from nearly stepping in.

Even in Fawcett’s soft wandlight, Harry noticed movement from the corner of his eye and spun around, ready to wield his wand at the flick of a wrist only to be confronted with ... Quidditch posters. The walls were covered with faded Quidditch posters. A slight pang gripped his chest as the Stealth Auror saw some of the figures in the pictures sluggishly flying about beneath a thin layer of dust. Like clockwork, it struck him.

It was the one, single moment where he put aside the Stealth Auror and came to realize the terrible truth: this was a human being, with human emotions, and a human life. Not another case to be solved within a reasonable amount of time. This was a person who liked Quidditch — loved it, judging by the number of posters plastered to their walls; a person who had a pet, and lived quietly and just lived.

A murder victim. Harry clenched his fists into tight balls at the mere whisper of the thought.

“Ah, well this is just sad,” McLaggen started, peering around the cramped room with a critical air. “I’d have offed myself, too, if I had to live like this.”

“Shut up, McLaggen, and don’t touch anything,” Harry growled in annoyance as he slapped the S.P.A.R.C.’s hand away from the duvet. “Have some decency, will you? We’re invading this man’s life.”

“He’s dead. What would he care if we mussed things around a bit?”

“You tamper with a scene, you tamper with evidence,” he rounded on the disparaging Gryffindor. “Try it and I’ll have you sacked. Now, shut ... up.”

He’d received his share of foul looks from McLaggen since they first started the then standard Auror program some six years ago, but this one topped them all. Harry didn’t know whether to be thrilled or affronted. Gareth, on the other hand, seemed to find it highly amusing, if his faint snorts served any indication.

Turning to matters at hand, Harry’s tone was uncharacteristically gruff as he asked the elder Unspeakable, Edith Fawcett, “What’d you find?”

“Not much; nothing in the way of clues,” she answered, extending the glow of her wand over the bed. The glint of an evidence bag glistened in the soft light. “Bed’s unslept in, body temp was low earlier, so he’s probably been dead at least five hours.”

Harry nodded once. “What about Muggles? Anyone here detect anything around the house not magical? Did you do any spells for — ”

“Of course I did, Potter,” she edgily broke in. “I’ve been doing this since before you started Hogwarts. Don’t treat me like I was born yesterday. If you aren’t cut out for the job — ”

“Sorry,” he quickly apologized, cursing himself for his beginner’s mistake. He could already see McLaggen smirking from the corner of his eyes. “I didn’t mean to offend you, it’s just ... standard procedure. Still getting used to this.”

He waited for Fawcett to pass judgment with a cold stare, and nearly sighed in relief when she went on. “I’ve cast the required spells and come up short. He lived a good distance from the closest Muggle town; I doubt someone heard anything from this far.”

Harry gave a disappointed hum and crossed his arms, his brow lowering. “What about him?”

Fawcett canceled the Lumos Spell and as the room fell into darkness, Harry could have sworn he felt something fly past and unsettle his hair. When she lit her wand up again, he realized Fawcett had Summoned a roll of parchment from the sitting room. Unfurling it, she held her wand to the scroll and read off, “‘Confirmed with the Record of Magical Births and Deaths, Peakes, James. Son of Peakes, Ioan; Muggle: deceased, and Peakes, Hazel; witch: still alive. Works at — ’”

“Hang on,” Harry burst out, his heart beating a bit faster as Fawcett gave him a peeved stare. “James Peakes? As in Jim, Jimmy Peakes?”

He waited as she consulted her scroll for a few seconds before returning with, “‘Aliases, Jimmy Peakes,’ so yes, it’s the same person.”

“Jimmy Peakes? Writes for Quidditch World? I read ‘im,” Gareth glumly put in, adding a stone to the sinking feeling in Harry’s gut.

“I know him,” he quietly admitted, dropping his gaze to the pile of tattered robes, avoiding the others’ stares. “As did you, McLaggen.”

If anything, the Special Auror looked perplexed. “Did I?”

“Quidditch team, sixth year; remember?” Harry explained. “The year you cracked open my skull?”

“Oh, was he?” McLaggen asked, a noticeable amount of indifference lacing his tone. “I don’t recall him. Must’ve been a passable Beater for me not to remember.”

“He was fair,” Harry snapped at McLaggen’s disinterest.

“Fair doesn’t get you noticed, does it?”

“If you can’t shut your mouth — ”

“His death is also corroborated,” Fawcett raised her voice over their argument; Harry felt somewhat rueful under her hard gaze. “By ... by The Voices.” She said softly, and Harry noticed her eyes softened and the edge in her voice was lost as she said this. It would’ve taken a complete fool not to notice how taut the atmosphere in the room had become.

Harry swallowed, or tried to, but his mouth had gone dry. He didn’t need to ask Fawcett to shed light on what ‘The Voices’ meant. The mere mention of those words stirred a latent, snarling beast in him, amplifying his pounding headache tenfold. He’d heard them once before, several years ago, and he’d be damned before he went in that Chamber ever again.

“The Voices?” Gareth’s tone was full of wonder. “You mean that’s true?”

Harry couldn’t find his voice to answer. In fact, it was true. Strangely enough, the once soft, enticing voices behind the black curtain of the ancient arch exploded in dissonance following the demise of Voldemort. Those few brave Unspeakables who dared to explore the cause behind it had come up with many theories about repressive magicks and archaic enchantments, each guess as unlikely as the next.

Only Harry knew the actual truth, as well as Ron and Hermione, of course. She had been the one to conjure up the theory: because Voldemort escaped death for so long, his demise and passing beyond the Veil finally gave death its due. “A cacophonous celebration,” she’d branded it.

The Department of Mysteries had no solution to revert the arch back to its quiet state, which Harry was grateful for, in a morbid sense. After all, he did have a job because of it.

“My father said right before you ... die,” McLaggen sounded strangely subdued as he broke the glaring silence, “you hear voices. The Voices. The Voices in the Veil. They say that it’s the most terrible ... and beautiful thing you’ll ever hear.”

“Do you think Jimmy heard ‘em?”

Harry’s gaze moved from the floor to the curious Auror staring at him intently. He frowned, his eyebrows knitting together as he caught sight of Jimmy’s leg in his peripheral vision. Finally, Harry silently breathed, “For his sake, I hope not.”

“I found among his things,” Fawcett promptly resumed as if uninterrupted, voice still flat and emotionless, “a press pass, a few Galleons, and his wand.”

“Nothing indicative to his pet?”

“Beginners don’t ask the questions,” McLaggen brusquely admonished.

“He can ask whatever he wants, else how is he to learn? You know, for a mentor, you’re not teaching much.” Harry saucily countered, daring McLaggen to argue with an unwavering look. Gareth shot him a grateful grin as Fawcett rolled her eyes, clearly bored with their spats.

“Nothing directly about the creature, no,” she jadedly chose to answer the young Auror’s question. “But, I did find this,” she motioned to the evidence bag as she held it to her wandlight.

“Lumos,” Harry murmured, stepping closer to the sack with his wand lit, casting a brighter light on the piece of evidence. “Is ... that burnt paper?” Fawcett answered with a confirming nod as the others whispered spells around him to light their own wands.

“Not parchment,” Gareth pointed out.

“Good observation,” she mildly praised. “Wand tests show it is burnt paper of some sort; no scorch marks visible around here. Found it underneath the bed.”

“And the ashes? Did you use the Restoration Charm to put it back together?” Harry prodded, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose and leaning closer. It was a small piece of paper, mostly charred, but for a handful of clear spots, mostly at the top. It was too badly singed for any of the visible letters to make sense.

Fawcett shook her head, frowning. “That’s just it: the ashes were gone.”

“Swept up possibly?”

“No, there would’ve been something in the rubbish bin or evidence of burnt particles still in the room somewhere,” Harry informed.

“Are you saying someone took them, Potter?” McLaggen returned with a scoff. “What use would ashes have for anyone?”

“I dunno, say ... to hide evidence?” Harry dryly offered.

Gareth chuckled. “Didn’t do a very good job, did ‘e?”

“I didn’t ask for your inept opinion, boy!”

“Oi, lay off, both of you, and shine your wands here,” Harry calmly broke, studying the piece of paper closely. “I think I’ve found something.”

Immediately, three beams of light were shoved in his face, jabbing at the evidence bag. With more light, Harry could make out a few melted letters on the paper, but what caught his attention was a bluish mark at the top corner of the page. It looked like a corner of something solid and angular, a shape with many sides, he supposed, outlined in white with a blackened line of some sort. It didn’t resemble any of the official wizarding seals he was familiar with, but Harry had the strangest feeling he’d seen it before.

“What d’you suppose that is?” he quietly asked, tapping his wand against the mark, pensive.

“Not a clue,” McLaggen answered first, sounding dreadfully bored. “Fire pattern, perhaps?”

“Burnt in such an angular shape? Honestly, Cormac: I thought I was the one wearing glasses,” Harry absently chuckled as he tilted the bag and examined at its contents closely. “No; fire patterns aren’t this specific. Look here, those are straight lines: measured. Fire burns in arcs, not one hundred and eighty-degree streaks.”

“Is that so? Granger’s been a terrible influence on you, I think.”

“It’s called common sense, McLaggen.”

“Of which you haven’t a drop,” Gareth added with a toothy grin.

Harry felt mild sympathy for the young Auror as McLaggen’s patented death glare zeroed in on someone other than him; for once.

It was after he’d scrutinized the paper for a little while longer that Harry finally noticed night had come and gone. After instructing Fawcett to secure the evidence at the Ministry, Harry helped the rest of the investigative team finish up the scene, an enthused Gareth and a mouthy McLaggen trailing his every step.

He decided it was high time to turn in as a yawn rumbled from his chest and shattered what little concentration he had left. As McLaggen levitated the body of Jimmy Peakes and his unidentified pet from the cottage, Harry noticed first light had broken over the horizon, chasing away the darkness. It was too bad the same couldn’t be said for Jimmy.

Throwing up the strongest Muggle-Repelling Charm he knew, Harry warded the cottage against any unsolicited attention before turning on the spot, Apparating home.

.:.