Harrow

     Harry Evans has learned to recognize the signs of a tragedy seconds before it becomes a reality. It’s a skill honed over years of hunting beasts disguised as men, an instinct carved in the silence between heartbeats. 

The two men standing side by side outside his flat reek of trouble, hands on their belts near their badges and their wands. One, a lanky man with the weary posture of someone who has seen too much, lifts a fist and knocks again. The other, broader and rigid, lets his gaze sweep the dimly lit hallway. Both wear long coats, their badges glinting under the yellow light. Harry’s stomach tightens. 

He’s three years removed from the Auror Department, bucking the odds and not stepping a foot back into that festering wound. Not so much as an ill use of a portkey in all those years. Yet here he is, staring out the peephole, tongue dry, throat burning,  as he wonders which part of himself they had come for tonight. 

With a slow turn of his wrist, he pushes the door open, just wide enough to step through, but not enough to let them in. 

“Yes?”

“Evans.” The taller one speaks first, his voice clipped. “Special Agent Kingsley Shacklebolt, Auror’s Magical Investigations Unit. This is my partner, Moody. May we come in?”

“What’s this about?” he asks, trying to keep his voice steady.

Shacklebolt sighs, glancing at Moody, who simply shrugs. There’s no aggression in their stances—at least, none more than what’s normal for Aurors after a twelve-hour shift. But still, something doesn’t feel right. 

“You led the Reaper case a couple years ago. Closed the case without a suspect before you, uh, left the department.”

Harry’s jaw tightens, the years of careful distance between him and the Auror Department suddenly feeling flimsy.  “And?” 

“A body was found last night. Same M.O.”

The photograph is pushed towards him, but he makes no move to take it. He glances at it—once, twice—his eyes narrowing. It’s a composite, hastily done. The body’s ribs splayed wide open, an empty cavity where life once was. 

A wave of nausea flickers beneath the surface of his calm exterior, but he suppresses it, focusing instead on the details.

 “Are those runes?” he asks. 

The kills had always been without runes, the pattern too precise to allow any deviation. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

“Head Auror Scrimgeour is requesting your presence.”

His lips curl at the audacity, his fingers tightening at the edge of the door. “I’m not under his payroll anymore.”

Moody shifts uneasily. His shoulder length hair is pulled into a low ponytail, and his coat is missing a button. Clenched in his hands is another slim folder, its cover stained with coffee splotches. He fumbles under Harry’s gaze, speaking as though it pains him. “He isn’t asking, Mr. Evans. The killer left your name on a note.”

Harry raises his eyebrows, every hair on the back of his neck standing on end. “What?!”

This time, he takes the folder, the stark, blocky writing glaring at him from the front photograph. ‘You should have listened to Harry Evans.’

A harsh breath hisses through his teeth. The note has replaced the victim’s tongue. Eliot Owen, a smarmy politician with a penchant for little girls. 

Harry’s blood burns at the memory: Owen's DNA should have sealed his fate. But money, connections, a well-timed smear campaign, and a system too broken to see through it had transformed the horror into nothing more than a nuisance.

And Harry... Harry had been the one to pay the price. 

That is when he knows, like a sixth sense: They should have listened. 

“I’ll go get my coat.”