Shadows in St. Mungo's II - The Secret of Avalon: Chapter 01

That singular March morning, the sky over London was clear — a rare whim of the city that usually preferred to dress in grey. The sun slipped through the last of the clouds with an almost ceremonial gentleness, casting a pale light over the worn cobblestones of Number 12 Grimmauld Place.

Harry Potter paused for a moment in front of the dark, familiar door, his fingers resting on the handle with brief hesitation. Sweat clung to his sweatshirt, and his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, as if he had just won a small battle against himself.

He had run for forty minutes. A feat that, not long ago, would have seemed absurd.

He carefully left his trainers by the threshold and walked through the narrow corridor. Kreacher, who had appeared with his usual muttering and an expression of eternal disdain, was solemnly ignored. Over time, Harry had discovered that peace with the elf was paradoxically forged in silence.

In the kitchen, cold water filled the glass with a quiet clink. Harry leaned his forearms on the counter, watching the faint mist of his own breath with slow attention. A simple ritual. An ordinary morning.

That’s how it was now.

He woke early. He ran. He avoided cigarettes — not always successfully, true. Hermione, with her relentless diplomacy, called it progress. Ron mocked him, afraid his friend would end up running naked through London in search of spiritual enlightenment. Ginny, during one of their last meetings, had simply called him mature — with that half-smile that always disarmed him.

Everyone was trying.

Harry too.

And yet, something still wouldn’t give. Something that lingered like a muffled echo between the walls of his thoughts.

Daphne Greengrass.

He hadn’t seen her since that afternoon at the Rocherolle, six months earlier. No letters. No owls. Not even a whisper in the Ministry — which, considering the number of professional gossips per square meter, said a lot.

It was as if she had disappeared. Dissolved into the air. Subtracted from the world without a trace.

And still, she remained.

Sometimes, Harry imagined her walking into the room, light steps, stern gaze. Other times, he dreamed of her — and never in dramatic situations, but in the banal details: a shared cup of tea, a joke exchanged, the two of them leaning over an investigation board as if there were time to understand everything.

He always woke with the same feeling.

She was in danger.

It was irrational, perhaps. A remnant of the old war instinct, always on alert. A conditioned reflex from someone who had lost too much to trust silence.

He ran a hand through his damp hair — still messy, though shorter. He crossed the kitchen and entered the small study. Nothing had changed. The books aligned, the files closed, the shelves as organized as Hermione would approve. No envelope. No note. No presence.

Daphne was gone.

And he didn’t know if she would return.

But the worst part wasn’t the absence. It was the uncomfortable, persistent, stubborn certainty that their story hadn’t yet come to an end.

He lifted the cup of cold coffee and brought it to his lips. Bitter. Nearly undrinkable. But he didn’t have the energy to replace it. Sometimes, routine was sustained by small familiar discomforts.

The silence was almost comforting. But her memory still whispered under his skin, like a subtle spell that had never been broken.

He leaned back in the chair, eyes fixed on the white ceiling. The ticking of the wall clock filled the room with mathematical precision. The fireplace crackled in its discreet dance. And, in the background, the muffled sound of Kreacher’s footsteps upstairs.

Everything in order.

Everything… quiet.

But Harry Potter knew — with the bitter intuition of those who have seen the worst — that peace, for him, was only the calm before the next storm.

He rose from the chair with a restrained sigh, as if carrying the invisible weight of unanswered questions. He passed the hallway mirror — and stopped there.

He studied his own reflection with an attention he hadn’t given it in a long time.

The beard, once a forgotten cluster of hair, was now trimmed, modestly kept — a whim imposed by Hermione, accepted by him with silent reluctance. The face looked less worn. The dark circles had eased somewhat, though fatigue, that most intimate enemy, still lived in his eyes.

It was him, yes. But he had changed.

It wasn’t grief. Nor serenity. It was something in between — a state of waiting. As if expecting a name. A sign. A chance.

His body looked firmer now. His shoulders straighter. But the ghosts… oh, the ghosts were still there — discreet, seated behind his eyes, watching the world with the caution of those who have lost too much.

He turned and returned to the study. Ran his fingers along the spines of the books — most about magical healing, advanced potions, and old case reports from the Department of Mysteries.

Her influence. Daphne.

He sat down, at last, and closed his eyes.

The clock’s hand kept its relentless march. Kreacher moved as always. And the fireplace still murmured its ancient songs.

Everything was quiet.

But he knew.

It wasn’t over.

~HP~

Harry Potter’s office on the seventh floor of the Ministry of Magic had always felt temporary — as if its occupant had never quite decided whether to settle in or just keep passing through. The walls, bare of memories, held only the institutional portraits of the Auror Department. The shelf behind the desk, normally a mess of functional chaos, was now curiously tidy. A reflection, perhaps, of a morning far too quiet.

The golden-hand clock showed just past three. And Harry, hunched over his desk, had already drunk more coffee than any mediwizard would recommend.

He was trying to force a routine. Reviewing trivial reports. Dealing with minor magical infractions and memories mistakenly altered. But every now and then, his mind drifted back to the name that had crept in since dawn, like a cold breeze through the crack of a poorly closed window.

Daphne.

He had tried to drown her in tasks, as he always did with shadows. But the mind — that old traitor — was skilled at finding shortcuts.

That’s when someone knocked on the door.

Not just any knock. A decisive, impatient fist.

“Potter.”

Dawlish’s voice was unmistakable. Rough as gravel.

Harry looked up, shoulders still tense from the muffled jolt.

The Head of the Department, now officially, entered without waiting for an invitation. He wore the dark blue cloak reserved for formal days — or funerals. His expression, as always, was made of stone. But there was something different in it, something almost imperceptible: a hint of discomfort?

“I thought you were on leave,” he remarked, in the tone of someone accusing a minor crime.

“I came back yesterday,” Harry replied, leaning back in his chair with a touch of rehearsed laziness. “Wasn’t doing anything useful at home.”

Dawlish let out a neutral sound, somewhere between approval and disdain, and placed a thick envelope on the desk.

“Then maybe you’ll want something useful to do.”

Harry broke the seal with his thumb. He read the first few lines. A wrinkle formed between his eyebrows.

“Meredith Crane. The name sounds vaguely familiar.”

“It should,” Dawlish growled. “Former researcher from the Department of Mysteries. Worked there during the war years. Left shortly after Voldemort’s fall. Kept out of the spotlight. Now... she’s gone.”

“How long ago?”

“Three days. A neighbor reported it first, but her mother sent a message recently. She lives in France. Said that, although they didn’t speak often, Meredith always wrote. When she stopped, she contacted the Ministry. The information lined up.”

“And the Department of Mysteries?” Harry asked, a flicker of skepticism in his eyes.

Dawlish sighed. An unusual gesture for him — almost human.

“They said she was on leave. Not involved in any active projects. And that she probably just... went on a trip.”

Harry didn’t reply immediately. He simply raised his eyes slowly.

“And do you believe that?”

Dawlish responded with a half-smile that looked more like a sneer.

“I don’t believe anything that comes from that floor. That’s why I’m handing you the case. Officially, it’s just a preliminary investigation. But if you want to… dig. No one’s going to stop you. As long as you dig quietly.”

For a moment, the two men remained still. Harry with the envelope in his hands. Dawlish with narrowed eyes, as if calculating the reach of his words.

“Anything else?” Harry asked.

Dawlish hesitated. Then leaned in slightly.

“Yes.” His voice now carried a restrained warning. “Be careful, Potter. The Department of Mysteries doesn’t appreciate ghosts coming back to life. And you’ve already caused a huge mess. If you start causing problems again, I’ll suspend you. And not even Kingsley will be able to do anything.”

With that, he turned and left. The door closed with a sharp, prolonged click, as if the silence itself tried to fill the space he left behind.

Harry remained where he was.

Staring at the spot where Dawlish had stood. The rigid figure, authority masked as courtesy. The man who, for years, had treated him like a nuisance. And yet now entrusted him with a case.

A tacit recognition. An offer with thorns.

He opened the envelope and spread the papers across the desk. Preliminary report. Transcript of the mother’s statement. Employment record. Floor plan of the apartment.

Meredith Crane.

The name sounded cold, bureaucratic. But something in his instinct tensed. A subtle shiver — the kind that settles at the base of the neck when the mind, before reason, senses the weight of a step.

Outside the enchanted window, London’s sky displayed its eternal performance of perfect clouds. Inside the office, however, the air seemed to grow heavier.

Harry closed his eyes for a moment. Allowed himself to give in to the feeling.

There was a familiarity there.

Selwyn. Burkes. Helena. Vaisey. Names that no longer appeared in reports. Names that had been silenced with clinical precision. And always — always — lingering at the edges of the unseen, the name no one dared to write down:

Mulciber.

There were still some, yes, within the Ministry’s corridors, who remembered. But they didn’t speak. They only murmured. And only in very safe places.

And Daphne.

Her name arose like a cold breeze on the back of his neck. Not summoned — just inevitable.

Harry opened the side drawer and pulled out the black notebook. Not the official one, which would be filed and reviewed by others. But his. The notebook where he wrote the truths he trusted to no one else.

He flipped through a few pages.

Case: Meredith Crane
Disappearance: 3 days ago
Last contact: letter sent to her mother, 3 weeks ago
Status: former researcher, Department of Mysteries
Apartment: no signs of struggle

He wrote the lines calmly. Then lifted his eyes to the locked cabinet in the corner. Inside it rested fragments of the previous investigation — altered reports, notes handwritten by Daphne, documents the Ministry would prefer never saw daylight.

It wasn’t time to reopen that yet.

But it was clear.

This disappearance wasn’t ordinary.

Dawlish’s urgency, the Department of Mysteries’ omission, the silence surrounding the name Meredith Crane... it all felt familiar. Too familiar.

And Harry Potter knew that smell.

Secrets.

And secrets — like blood — attract predators.

He rose slowly, eyes still fixed on the now-empty envelope. Gathered the papers, tucked them into the inner pocket of his cloak, and extinguished the lights with a small flick of his wand.

The corridor was nearly empty. Only the methodical ticking of enchanted clocks and the sound of Aurors closing files. Harry walked with steady steps, but his thoughts wandered — not to his destination, but to the past that, somehow, was beginning to rise again.

Meredith. Daphne. Mulciber.

Perhaps they were loose threads.

Or perhaps — just perhaps — the web was about to reveal itself once more.

~HP~

The building was discreet — perhaps too much so.

A pale brick structure, tucked between an enchanted bookstore that vanished at night and a cursed café whose favorite pastime was confusing customers' names. A street where no one asked too many questions. Perfect for those who wished to exist in silence. This was a building inhabited exclusively by wizards.

Harry climbed the narrow stairs to the third floor, his steps echoing softly on the old wooden boards. The air was steeped in an indistinct scent — a mix of dried herbs, aged varnish, and magical dust.

At the end of the corridor rested three doors. The one in the middle, number 3B, remained shut under standard protection spells — secure, but not meticulous.

Meredith Crane, by all indications, hadn’t expected to be sought.

A touch of the wand, a well-articulated murmur — and the enchantments dissolved with a timid, almost embarrassed click at how easily they yielded.

Harry pushed the door open and stepped inside slowly.

The apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

The living room was modest, functional. Open curtains let in the diffuse light of dusk. There was a desk by the window, a low bookshelf filled with books, a sofa with neatly arranged cushions. On the table sat a dry teapot, a half-forgotten mug, and a worn copy of Runes and Mental Connections, marked with pencil through various passages.

Harry crouched by the desk. On the floor, a fallen quill.

He picked it up carefully. The tip still held a trace of dried ink.

“She stopped writing,” he murmured.

But the paper on the desk was blank.

As if the last thought had been silenced before it could be born.

In the bedroom, the bed was made. Clothes folded on the dresser. A shawl carefully hung. Shoes aligned against the wall.

Nothing out of place.

And that was precisely what bothered him.

There was no sign of departure. No suitcase. No letter. No disorder.

Meredith hadn’t left of her own will.

She had disappeared.

Harry returned to the living room, wand in hand.

“Homenum Revelio.”

Nothing.

No presence. No living magic.

He approached the bookshelf. Most of the titles revolved around mental magic: manipulation of perception, unconscious projections, memory fragmentation.

He pulled out one of the most worn books. In the lower corner, Meredith’s precise signature. Flipping through it, he found notes in pencil:

“They’re using the memories.”
 “Consciousness can be divided.”
 “The key is not in the spell, but in the one who casts it.”

The last sentence echoed like something he had heard before.

In the corner of the shelf, nearly hidden, a dark-covered notebook.

Harry opened it.

The first pages were blank.

Further on, in hurried handwriting:

“They’re after me.”
 “I woke up yesterday and something had changed.”
 “I’m no longer alone in my own mind.”

Harry felt a chill at the back of his neck. He had heard words like these before. He had seen that emptiness in the eyes of other victims.

The clock struck six with a delicate sound. A reminder of time passing — or perhaps, running out.

He conjured a soft light with his wand. The shadows on the walls shifted as if they had heard something.

He searched the desk more thoroughly. Underneath it, a metal box, locked. A simple spell. Broken in seconds.

Inside, a diary.

Dark blue leather cover, worn edges, a strap still carefully tied. Not a book left in the open. It was important. Personal.

He opened it.

The first pages contained meticulous records — names, dates, coded acronyms. But the handwriting changed as he read. From firm, it became tense. Anxious.

“The old names return, but with new faces. They pretend to forget. I haven’t. I saw them too closely for that.”
 “Three days ago, I saw Patrick Vaisey in the corridors. Something was wrong. He wasn’t himself. The same emptiness Burke mentioned before he died.”

Harry turned the pages.

Then he stopped.

“Potter.”

Written as if the name carried weight.

“He’s involved. Investigating more than he should. I don’t think he realizes how deep he’s reached.”
 “If he continues, they’ll silence him. Not with death. They’ll dismantle him. From within. They’ve done it before.”

Harry closed the diary for a moment. The weight of those words seemed to fill the room. Meredith knew. She had been watching. And more than that — she had tried to warn him.

On the last legible page:

“They’ve found me. I can’t trust anymore. Not even myself. If I disappear, tell him: the project isn’t over. It never was.”

Harry remained still.

The silence in the apartment was different now. It carried memory. A trace of fear etched into the walls.

He returned to the diary.

More recent pages. Written in haste. Dense paragraphs.

“I accessed the old archives. Not all were destroyed. One name persists. Not as a project. As a place.”
 “Avalon.”

Harry froze.

Avalon.

The name reverberated like a muffled thump in his chest.

Not just any name. A legend. An island. A refuge for wounded kings. Where magic was pure. Where the dead rested.

But here, among frantic scribbles, Avalon didn’t feel like myth.

It felt real.

“It’s not a myth. Not after what happened in 1997. They said it was a mental facility. A lab. But no one who left it... left the same.”

He turned the page.

“I made a list. Some are dead. Others in comas.”

The next page had been torn out.

“Damn it,” he muttered, clutching the diary.

Avalon.

If it was a code, a place, a secret facility — and if it was still active...

Meredith’s disappearance wasn’t an accident.

It was a cleanup.

Another one.

And Harry was being pulled into it. Deliberately.

He looked around the apartment. The aligned furniture. The suspended air. Everything still, as if waiting for a return that would never come.

Meredith Crane hadn’t just disappeared. She had been erased.

And yet, she left a trail. A deliberate choice.

Harry tucked the diary into his coat and crossed the room one last time.

Nothing else.

Only the word.

Avalon.

Outside, the night air greeted him like a cold slap.

The city seemed indifferent. It always does.

But Harry knew.

Something old had awakened.

And this time, there would be no easy return.

~HP~

Harry went straight to the Ministry of Magic, ignoring the late hour and the fact that most employees had already ended their shifts. He didn’t need formal authorization — just the right combination of names, silences, and tired expressions for the right doors to open.

The Atrium was nearly empty, lit by softened magical lights for the night shift. Harry’s footsteps echoed briefly on the marble floor before fading, as if the very building had learned not to pay attention to certain visitors.

He moved through the corridors like a shadow. No one stopped him. No one even noticed.

His destination was a subterranean room, forgotten by nearly everyone: the Central Archives. It lay beyond two magical barriers — discreet, but unyielding — where documents were stored that even administrative inquisitors dared not touch without metaphorical gloves.

He stopped in front of a stone wall. In a low, measured voice, he whispered:

“Perditum Revela.”

The stone gave way with a deep, almost offended groan. The portal revealed a cold and stuffy room, where the scent of aged parchment and dried ink floated in the air like a warning.

Harry entered.

The aisles between the shelves were narrow and silent. His fingers slid over the spines catalogued with obsessive precision: Cancelled Projects. Restricted Magic. Collaborations with the Department of Mysteries.

He stopped before a dusty shelf marked with a simple sign:

“Internal Research — Level 4 Secrecy.”

“Avalon…” he murmured, raising his wand.

“Accio, Avalon records.”

Nothing.

The shelf remained unmoved, indifferent to the summoning.

He narrowed his eyes.

“Revelio.”

A shimmer ran across the parchments, but none responded. No visible inscriptions. No clues.

Taking a deep breath, Harry turned to the restricted archive consultation area. He sat before an old terminal — a polished obsidian globe that pulsed in amber tones, as if waiting for a whisper.

“Avalon,” he said quietly.

The globe reacted. A brief oscillation. A glow.

And then… silence.

Or almost.

A single entry blinked on the crystal’s surface:

Name: AVALON – Process 982-X
Classification: Level 7 — Access restricted to Department of Mysteries High Command
Status: Terminated (access suspended)

Harry felt his stomach tighten.

Terminated.

But not deleted.

Which invariably meant… it still existed.

He attempted direct access using his Auror credentials. Denied.

Tried an audit subroutine. Denied.

Finally, he resorted to the least orthodox — but effective — method: a controlled overload on the crystal, disguised as a technical glitch.

The globe glowed brightly. Then… darkened.

And then, for a single instant, before going dark completely, one word shimmered on the surface:

Rosier.

Harry remained still.

Rosier.

The name wasn’t there by chance.

Avalon. Meredith. Daphne. Mulciber. Now Rosier.

All the threads led back to the same skein.

He leaned back in the chair. The room was cold. Silent. As if, in that instant, it had heard too much.

The globe, now dark, looked as though it had never revealed anything at all.

Harry rose slowly, placing Meredith’s diary back inside his coat with more care than before — between the inner layers of fabric, as if his body’s warmth could protect its contents.

As he left, the stone door slid shut silently.

Silence.

No usual groan.

No sound at all.

Harry walked through the torch-lit corridor. But his steps, once firm, no longer echoed the same.

Something had changed.

There was something behind him.

Not a sound. Not a shadow.

Just a feeling.

Instinctively, his hand rested on the wand beneath his coat. He didn’t draw it. Not yet. Not necessary. Yet.

He took the service stairs — narrow, damp, seldom used. He avoided the lift. Avoided being seen.

The Atrium was calm when he emerged. Two Aurors chatted idly near the magical fountain. No one seemed to notice him.

But the feeling… lingered.

~HP~

When he crossed the disguised alleyway that led to the Muggle world, the night air hit him like a cold slap. London was blanketed in heavy clouds. The city seemed to be holding its breath.

Harry walked along the wet streets, winding through blocks until he reached a small café — discreet, quiet, an old acquaintance.

He entered.

The bell chimed softly. The elderly woman behind the counter gave him a vague look as she prepared tea with the same repetitive gestures as always. A man read the Daily Prophet in the back. Nothing new. No apparent danger.

Harry chose the corner, as he always did. From there, he could see the street. The door.

He ordered only a coffee — black, strong.

While he waited, his fingers drummed lightly on the wooden table. Thoughts spiraled.

Avalon. Rosier. Meredith. Daphne.

He closed his eyes, trying to dig through his memory for the fragments left in the diary. Something was slipping away. A pattern. An omission. A forgotten name.

The cup was placed before him without a word.

He nodded.

The coffee was bitter, almost burnt.

It hit the spot.

But the feeling didn’t leave him.

It was more than instinct. It was perception — trained now — that something was watching him. Something attentive.

He turned his gaze to the café window.

The street looked empty.

Almost.

A figure crossed the sidewalk on the opposite side.

Long coat. Slow steps. Stopped beside a lamppost. Seemed to be looking… directly at the café.

Harry remained still.

He didn’t try to act. He simply watched.

But when he glanced away for a second — the precise length of a blink — the figure vanished.

“Damn it…” he muttered.

It wasn’t the first time.

Since the Rosier case. Since Mulciber. Since Avalon.

That presence. That constant shadow in the cracks of routine.

He leaned back, eyes fixed on the street.

Meredith knew.

She knew she would disappear.

And still, she tried to warn him.

“Who else knew?”

And, more importantly:

“Had they already noticed him again?”

Harry finished the coffee in a single gulp. Left the exact coin on the table. Before leaving, he cast a discreet tracking spell, nearly imperceptible.

Nothing triggered.

But the feeling lingered.

Like a shadow clinging to his skin.

As he crossed the street and slipped into London’s alleyways, Harry knew with a certainty that ached in his bones:

He was no longer alone in this investigation.

And perhaps, he never had been.