The Plagues

Three weeks ago.

Harry sat alone in the dimly lit office, the scent of burnt coffee curling in the air, mingling with the damp chill creeping through the cracks of the old windows. His gaze was locked on the cluttered bulletin board in front of him, the case sprawled across it like a jigsaw puzzle that refused to make sense. Red string connected photographs, witness statements, scribbled notes—each piece of the investigation a thread in a tangled mess. But no matter how many times he stared, no answer came.

How did I get here? Harry thought to himself, his fingers absently tapping on the edge of his coffee mug. The cup was nearly empty, but he couldn’t bring himself to refill it. He’d been awake far too long.

He glanced at the clock. Nearly two in the morning.

This isn’t how I wanted it to go, he thought, but the words felt hollow. He’d been chasing shadows for so long, he’d almost forgotten what daylight felt like. Every case—every suspect—felt the same.

The lies, the deceit, the tangled webs of people who never quite told the truth. But this one…

This one was different.

The victim’s face stared back at him from the photos pinned to the board. A man in his mid-forties, well-dressed, his life a collection of secrets and half-truths. And the blood. It was always the most bloody, vile cases that got to him, yet something about this body, this corpse was different. It felt like a tickle at the back of his brain.

It was a message, so much was clear. Clean cuts only meant for torture.

He rubbed his temples, feeling the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him. He hadn’t slept in days, the pull of the case gnawing at him. He couldn’t stop thinking about it, couldn’t let it go. He’d been here since last night, piecing together fragments of a puzzle that never seemed to fit. But something about the precision of the murder—the deliberate marking of the snake on the wall—told him this wasn’t a random act. Whoever did this had planned it. That thought gnawed at him more than anything else.

He let out a long, weary breath, as he stood up. His muscles protested the movement, aching from too many hours hunched over the board. He walked to the window—staring out into the darkened streets—but it didn’t help.

It wasn't his first murder case, by far. Harry had started working for the force at the tender age of 17. He had graduated a year early alongside his best friend, Hermione Granger.

Harry had always fostered a morbid fascination with death, how could he not when it was the only constant in his life?

There was a chill in the air, but Harry couldn’t tell if it was from the rain or from the creeping dread settling in his bones.

The door creaked open behind him, and Harry didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Ron Weasley’s presence filled the room like it always did—loud, brash, but with an undercurrent of concern that Harry couldn’t ignore.

“Mate, you look like shit,” Ron’s voice cut through the silence, and Harry’s lips quirked into a tired smile.

“Thanks, Ron. That’s exactly what I needed to hear.”

Ron’s gaze fell on the case board, then back to Harry, his expression darkening. "How long have you been at this?"

Harry shrugged, his fingers idly picking at a stray piece of paper on the desk. “Since last night.”

Ron let out an exasperated sigh. "Bloody hell, Harry. You’re burning yourself out. You need to sleep."

Harry shot him a look, the weight of the case still hanging over him like a suffocating fog. "I don’t have time for sleep, Ron. There’s a dead body with no answers, and I know it’s only the beginning."

“You’re not going to find the answers by turning into a bloody ghost,” Ron shot back. “You can’t help anyone if you’re falling apart.”

Harry didn’t respond. He couldn’t. Ron was right, the words stuck in his throat. Instead, his eyes fell back on to the crime scene photos.

The victim, the snake. A message.

“This wasn’t random,” Harry muttered, tapping the photo of the victim.

Ron crossed his arms, glancing over the images. “Yeah, no kidding. The guy’s connected to every criminal syndicate in the city. Whoever did this wanted to make a point.”

Harry nodded, his expression grim. "And that’s what bothers me."

“Yeah, I can see that. What? That it’s a message?” Ron asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No,” Harry shook his head, his voice quiet. “That it’s the first one.”

A silence settled between them. The pieces of the puzzle were slipping just out of reach, and it was driving Harry mad.

“You think we’re dealing with a serial?” Ron asked, his voice low.
Harry’s gaze was hard as he met Ron’s eyes.

“No. I think we’re dealing with something worse.”

Ron seemed to chew on that for a moment, before a low whistle escaped his lips.

“Brilliant. And here I was hoping for an easy month.” Harry allowed himself a tired chuckle.

"Ron, when was the last time we ever got an easy month?" Ron grinned, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

"Right, yeah. If Hermione were here, she’d be lecturing the both of us on the importance of a healthy sleep cycle."

"She’s too busy running the bloody city," Harry replied with a small grin of his own. His best friend was running for office. “Can’t imagine what she’d think of us now.”

Ron leaned against the desk, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Still, if we’re going to catch this guy, we need more than a hunch. I’ll start checking the known associates, see if anyone’s talking.”

Harry nodded. “Thanks, Ron.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Ron replied. “Just promise me you’ll sleep at some point, yeah?”

“I’ll consider it,” Harry said, but there was no real promise in his voice.

Ron rolled his eyes but didn’t push further. He glanced at the board once more, his gaze lingering on the snake drawn in blood, then headed for the door.
Harry watched him leave, the silence of the office swallowing him whole again. He let out a long breath and sat back down.

The case. The blood. The snake.

It felt like it was the beginning of something far worse. Something that had just begun to unravel.

Harry jolted awake, his head pounding like a drum. The harsh realization that he’d fallen asleep at his desk hitting him almost immediately. He blinked, trying to focus his blurry vision, his face still pressed into the cool wood of his desk. His neck ached, and his limbs were stiff, but worse than that was the unbearable pressure in his skull, a dull, relentless throb that made him feel like the world was too loud, too sharp.

The dim office around him seemed almost foreign, as though he'd stumbled into it from another world. The overhead light flickered weakly, and the papers scattered across the desk—the crime scene photos, the victim’s file, the sketch of the bloodied snake—were reminders of how long he’d been lost in this case.

His fingers brushed against the desk surface as he tried to push himself upright, a low groan escaping his lips as the pounding in his head only intensified. He could feel the weight of sleep tugging at him, but he fought it, blinking hard, trying to focus. The remnants of his half-empty coffee mug sat in front of him, cold and untouched.

He wiped his face, feeling the roughness of stubble, the exhaustion setting into his bones. It had been days since he'd had more than a few hours of rest, and even then, it had been fitful.

As his bleary eyes adjusted to the low light, he saw it. The blinking red light on his office phone, its steady pulse like a beacon cutting through the fog. A missed call.

Colin, Harry thought as his eyes flicked to the name on the screen.

Colin Creevey, his assistant, was as eager as he was inexperienced. Colins enthusiasm was infectious but often a bit much for Harry. But Colin had been relentless in his pursuit of this case, and that had earned him a certain amount of Harry's begrudging respect. Still, the young man’s calls always seemed to come at the worst possible times.

What now? Harry mused, swiping to check the voicemail. He listened closely as Colin’s voice crackled through the speaker.

“Harry! It’s Colin. I’ve got something on the victim—well, on the body, actually. I think it’s worth a look. I’m heading to the mortuary now. Meet me there, yeah?”

The voicemail cut off abruptly, but the message was clear.

Harry let out a tired sigh and glanced at the clock on the wall. It wasn't even seven o’clock yet. Where did Colin get his energy from? He knew as a fact that the boy was vehemently opposed to coffee, swearing it was the devil's drink. Thank heaven for small mercies.

Without a second thought, he shoved his note-pad into his pocket and stood up. The dizziness hit Harry like a wall, making him stagger slightly as he reached for his coat hanging on the back of his chair. His muscles screamed in protest as he moved,he ignored it, pushing through.

The office was too small. The case files were too many. The answers were too elusive.

Time to move, he thought, grimacing as he forced his body to cooperate.

—

The mortuary was just as cold and sterile as Harry remembered: the air thick with the acrid scent of chemicals and disinfectant. It was a place that existed on the edge of life and death, a space where the living tried to make sense of the dead.

Harry pushed the door open with a soft creak, and the immediate chill from the room wrapped around him like a blanket. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting long, harsh shadows on the concrete floor. There was a faint hum from somewhere deeper in the building—probably the refrigeration units.

The walls were stark white, unwelcoming, and sterile. Nothing here was meant to comfort.

Colin was already there, standing near one of the metal tables with his hands nervously fidgeting in his pockets. His eager eyes scanned the room as if he couldn’t contain his excitement, despite the grim surroundings. He looked like he hadn’t slept either, but his energy was contagious.

"Harry!" Colin greeted him as he entered, his voice high-pitched with excitement, his eyes wide behind his glasses. "I’ve been going over the autopsy results and—" He broke off when he saw the exhaustion in Harry’s face, the sharp lines of fatigue that marred his usually composed features. “You okay?”

Harry managed a thin smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m fine. What did you find?”

Colin gestured toward the table in front of them, his voice dropping to a more subdued tone. “The body. It’s… different. You need to see this.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. Nodding, he forces his legs to move toward the table. The victim’s body was lying in a pale, almost ghostly heap, his limbs slightly stiffened from rigor mortis. A stark white sheet was draped over him, the clean edges almost too perfect, as though the body had been arranged with careful deliberation. Only the victim’s head and hands were exposed, the rest hidden beneath the cloth.

Harry studied the body carefully, noting the absence of bruising on the hands and arms. The man’s skin was pale, the kind of white that spoke of a sudden and violent end. There were no visible signs of a struggle—no signs of the typical frantic defensive movements. The victim had been caught off guard. But then, why were there no defensive wounds?

Harry leaned in closer, inspecting the cuts that marred the skin. His fingers hovered above the victim’s neck and arms, where the thin, delicate slashes ran like threads of silk. They were precise, shallow, and surgical, leaving behind barely noticeable lines on the skin. The cuts were methodically placed—they were superficial, almost too perfect, like an artist making deliberate strokes.

“This…” Harry muttered, leaning in to get a better look. “These cuts—weren't incidental.”

Colin nodded eagerly, his voice filled with the thrill of discovery. “Exactly. It’s like the killer knew exactly what they were doing. They weren’t trying to hurt him—they were trying to mark him.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. They were part of something—something planned, something calculated. And the nature of the cuts made it clear this was not just an act of anger. It was a statement.

The wound, nothing to suggest a lethal strike. Yet the man was clearly dead. His pulse had stopped. The victim’s neck seemed swollen, as though he’d been strangled, his windpipe crushed before the fatal cut was made. The man had been controlled—held in place before he could defend himself. It wasn’t a murder of chance; it was a murder of certainty.

"Look at this," Harry murmured, moving to the victim’s wrist. There, just beneath the skin, faint and nearly imperceptible, was a burn mark.

Colin leaned in, eyes widening. “What is that? A brand?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. His fingers hovered above the mark, tracing the faint outline of what looked like an imprint, as though something had been pressed against the skin with brutal force.

It wasn’t a burn in the traditional sense—there were no blisters or scorched flesh, just a subtle, almost too precise mark beneath the surface. It was the kind of thing that would be easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it.

"Could be a symbol," Harry said, his mind already working. "A mark of some kind. But it’s too deliberate to be a mistake."

Colin nodded, visibly impressed. "I’ve never seen anything like it. Do you think it’s tied to the case?"

Harry’s eyes narrowed as he took a step back. The pieces still didn’t fit together, not in the way they normally did. He could feel the weight of the case pressing on him, each clue dragging him deeper into a web of mystery.

“We need to run this through the archives,” Harry muttered. “See if anything like this has shown up before.”

As Colin moved to fetch the records, Harry stood there, staring at the body, the cuts, the burn mark. Everything about this was wrong—calculated, deliberate, and chilling. The killer had left behind something more than a body.

They’d left behind a message, a signature.

And Harry was just beginning to understand the gravity of it.

-’-’-’-’-’

A slow, deliberate exhale. The scent of blood hung heavy in the air, thick and metallic, clinging to the fine vicuna of Tom Riddle’s suit. It dripped from his gloved fingers in languid rivulets, staining the pristine white marble floor beneath him. He tilted his head, observing the way the crimson spread outward, pooling around the lifeless body before him.

The man had died with his eyes open, frozen in an expression of dull, glassy shock. As if, even in his final moments, he hadn’t quite believed it. Not until he had lain in a pool of crimson, his windpipe crushed, knife sliced cleanly across his throat, severed flesh, silencing the last pathetic gurgle of breath.

Tom took a step back, ensuring his shoes did not touch the spreading blood. The blade in his hand gleamed under the soft overhead light, its surface unmarred except for a single lingering droplet. He turned it slightly, watching how it caught the glow, before pulling a white handkerchief from his pocket and wiping the blade clean with the meticulous precision of a man who left nothing to chance.

It had been an easy kill. No fight. No struggle. Just the cool, controlled movement of a knife wielded with purpose.

The victim—Edgar Mulciber—hadn’t even screamed.

He had been too mortified. Too afraid to face the reality where he has been discovered. Found guilty of betraying his lord.

He crouched beside the body, eyes narrowing as he studied his work. The cut was precise. Deep. A perfect slice along the jugular, efficient in a way that spoke of both experience and artistry.

Tom had never been one for rash brutality. He had no interest in messy, meaningless displays favored by common criminals, the overindulgent, frenzied violence of men who lacked control. Murder, when done properly, was an art form. And art required discipline.

His gaze drifted to the wall behind the body, where his final touch remained.

Drawn in blood, stark against the ivory marble, was the unmistakable curve of a serpent.

A mark. A message. A signature.

No one would mistake this for an accident.

With a slow breath, he pushed himself to his feet, sliding the knife back into the sheath hidden beneath his suit jacket. He had a minimum of seven knives on him at all times.

The room was silent except for the faint hum of the city outside, the distant wail of sirens echoing somewhere in the night.

It was time to leave.

He moved with deliberate ease, walking past the extravagant leather furniture, past the half-finished glass of whiskey still sitting on the bar cart. Mulciber had been in the middle of a drink when Voldemort found him. A final indulgence before his existence was neatly, efficiently erased.

Tom stepped into the en-suite bathroom, the sterile white tiles gleaming under soft fluorescent light. He turned on the faucet, letting warm water rush over his fingers, watching as the last traces of red swirled down the drain in a slow spiral.
Every detail had been planned. Every action accounted for.

There would be no mistakes.

Straightening his cuffs, he took a final glance at himself in the mirror. Cool grey eyes met his own, sharp and unreadable. His dark hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place. The black suit was immaculate, fitted perfectly to his frame, a picture of control and composure.

No one who saw him now would ever guess where he had just been.
He allowed himself a small, fleeting smile.

And then he walked out.

The ride to his office was quiet.

Tom sat in the back of the sleek black car, one hand resting idly on the armrest as he watched the city blur past in streaks of gold and neon. London at night had its own rhythm, a steady pulse beneath the chaos, and he had always loved that about it. The way it never truly slept.

His driver—Nott—did not speak. He knew better than to disturb Tom when he was thinking.

The murder replayed in his mind, every detail considered, analyzed, dissected. Not because he doubted his own actions—he never did—but because he believed in perfection.

He thought of the cut. Thought of the way his knife had split the skin like butter. The satisfying sound of Mulcibers wind-pipe crushing beneath his fingers. The placement of the body.

The symbol left behind.

It had all been deliberate. And yet, something about the moment lingered in his mind longer than usual.

Perhaps it was because this was the first.

The first body left behind. The first step towards something greater.

He had spent years in the shadows.working in whispers, pulling strings behind the scenes, ensuring that his influence was felt but never seen. This was the first time he had broken that rule. The first time he had stepped into the light.
And he had done it for one reason.

Potter.

Tom’s fingers tapped idly against the smooth surface of the leather seat.
By now, Potter would have seen the crime scene. Would have looked at the snake drawn in blood and would know, without a doubt, that it meant something. That it was personal.

It was an invitation.

And Potter, being exactly who he was, would not be able to resist answering it.
The thought sent the faintest spark of amusement through Tom’s otherwise cold demeanor.

He had always found Potter… interesting.

For years, the Auror had been an irritation, an obstacle to be avoided. But there was something about him, something relentless, something sharp. A man who did not bend, even when it would have been easier to break.

Tom respected that, in his own way.

It made him a worthy opponent.

The car pulled up in front of the towering steel-and-glass structure. The security guard at the front nodded once.

The air was crisp, cool, and quiet as he walked through the empty lobby. His office was at the very top, high above the city, where no one could reach him unless he allowed it.

As the elevator doors slid open, he stepped inside, pressing the button for the highest floor. The ride up was silent, the soft hum of the lift was the only sound as he leaned against the polished metal railing, fingers still tapping idly.

By the time he stepped into his office, the night had begun to settle into something heavier, something quieter. The city below stretched out in an endless sea of lights, and Tom took a moment to stand by the window, watching. He had chosen this building meticulously. The light in Detectives Potter's office was off. The man was probably gazing at his art right this moment.

On his desk, a single folder sat waiting for him.

Harry Potter.

He walked over, letting his fingers trail along the edge of the folder before flipping it open. Photographs, reports, surveillance notes. Years’ worth of information, compiled neatly into a single, unassuming file. Tom smirked. Potter was already chasing him.

The moment he saw the body, the moment he saw the mark, he would begin pulling at the thread Tom had laid out for him.

And, like a moth drawn to a flame, he would follow it.

Tom leaned back in his chair, glass of whiskey in hand, as he gazed out at the city.

This was only the beginning.

And he was already five steps ahead.