A Strange Sighting
The Ministry of Magic was bustling with the frenetic energy typical of the week after Christmas. Wizards and witches hurried through the polished corridors, arms laden with reports and scrolls as they tried to catch up on work missed during the holidays. Harry stood near the entrance to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, his gaze fixed intently on one particular figure making his way through the throngs of people.
Draco Malfoy, dressed in his usual sharp robes, looked as composed and aloof as ever. His pale hair gleamed under the enchanted ceiling lights, and his posture was ramrod straight as he moved purposefully down the hall. For the past few days, Harry had caught glimpses of him lingering around the Ministry more often than he ever remembered. It wasn’t just the frequency of their encounters; it was the way Malfoy behaved—always looking like he had somewhere else to be, but never quite getting there.
As Malfoy approached, Harry took a step forward, intercepting his path. The blond wizard glanced up, surprise flickering briefly in his gaze before his face settled into an expression of cool politeness.
“Potter,” Malfoy greeted, his tone smooth and almost—friendly? His lips twitched into a small smile, more a shadow of one than the sneers Harry was used to seeing. “We seem to be crossing paths a lot lately.”
“Yeah, funny how that keeps happening,” Harry replied lightly, keeping his voice casual. “So, I heard you’re leaving for America soon?”
There was a flicker—so brief it was almost imperceptible—in Malfoy’s eyes. “Ah, yes,” he replied smoothly. “Just tying up loose ends before I go.”
Harry tilted his head, feigning curiosity. “Didn’t realize you were the type to go for research trips abroad. Thought you were more of a ‘stay-put’ kind of wizard.”
A soft chuckle escaped Malfoy’s lips, his shoulders lifting in a small shrug. “People change, Potter.” He gave a nonchalant smile. “The opportunity came up, and, well… who am I to pass it up?”
“Right,” Harry said slowly, trying to keep his expression neutral. Something about this whole exchange felt… wrong. “So, when’s the big move?”
“Just after New Year’s,” Malfoy replied breezily. “I’ll be out of your hair soon enough, Potter. No need to worry.”
“That’s not what I—” Harry started, but Malfoy waved him off with a dismissive flick of his hand.
“Really, Potter,” he said with a faint smirk. “I appreciate your concern, but I assure you, I’ll be perfectly fine. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m already running late.” He gave Harry a short nod, then turned on his heel and strode away, his robes swishing lightly behind him.
Harry watched him go, unease twisting tighter in his chest. That had been… too smooth. Too calm. The real Draco Malfoy would have bristled at the questioning, maybe snapped back with some sharp comment, or at least looked irritated. But this Malfoy seemed—content. Unbothered. Like he had everything exactly where he wanted it.
It just didn’t add up.
-
Harry left the Ministry in a rush of swirling thoughts, his mind still circling around the strange encounter with Malfoy. Something was definitely off, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. The crisp winter air nipped at his face as he stepped out onto the busy streets of Muggle London, his breath misting in the chilly breeze. With a sigh, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat and began making his way home to Grimmauld Place, the unease from earlier lingering like a shadow.
The streets were bustling with late evening shoppers, their arms full of bags and parcels as they hurried along. Harry kept his head down, letting the anonymity of the Muggle world wash over him. But just as he was about to turn a corner, something—or rather, someone—caught his eye.
A hulking figure stood across the street, loitering in front of a small grocery store. For a moment, Harry thought he must be mistaken. He squinted, watching as the man shuffled awkwardly, his massive frame hunched against the cold. He wore a thick coat and a knitted hat pulled low over his forehead, but even from this distance, Harry recognized that lumbering gait.
Goyle?
Harry’s heart skipped a beat as he froze in place, staring across the street. It couldn’t be—Gregory Goyle had been a permanent resident in St. Mungo’s for years. After the war, Goyle had mostly kept his head down, avoiding trouble until that one awful night when everything changed.
Six months after he, Ron, and Hermione became Aurors, they had been called to the scene of a brutal attack. It was supposed to be routine—assist with securing the area and gathering evidence. But the moment Harry had arrived, he had been shocked to find Gregory Goyle sprawled on the ground, his face battered beyond recognition and his body covered in dark curses. His entire form had been twisted in agony, the magical injuries wreaking havoc on his mind. No one had been able to get a coherent word out of him.
That was also the first time Harry had seen Malfoy since the end of the war. He remembered it vividly—the moment Malfoy had burst through the crowd, his eyes wild with fear as he caught sight of Goyle’s broken form. Harry had tried to speak to him, but Malfoy had barely glanced his way, his gaze locked on his friend. Before anyone could stop him, he had followed the St. Mungo’s Healers as they Apparated Goyle to the hospital, his face pale and desperate.
Later, Harry had heard that Goyle’s condition was severe. The combination of curses and the trauma of the attack had left him catatonic, unable to function properly. He had been transferred to the Spell Damage Ward, the same ward where Neville’s parents resided—those forever caught between memory and madness.
And yet, here he was.
Harry’s eyes narrowed as he watched Goyle shuffle awkwardly with a small bag of groceries in his hand, his expression vacant but… normal. That couldn’t be right. There had been no news of his recovery. No reports of his release. How could he be walking around Muggle London as if nothing had happened?
Before Harry could cross the street and approach, a double-decker bus roared past, obscuring his view. He stepped forward quickly, but by the time the bus had moved on, Goyle was gone.
Harry’s stomach twisted as he scanned the street frantically, but there was no sign of the familiar hulking figure anywhere. He cursed under his breath, straining to see through the bustling crowds, but it was as if Goyle had vanished into thin air.
“Where did you go?” Harry muttered to himself, his mind racing. He took a step forward, but hesitated. What if he had imagined it? But no—he knew what he’d seen. Gregory Goyle, standing on a Muggle street corner, buying groceries like any ordinary wizard.
Something about this didn’t add up. First Malfoy’s strange behavior, and now Goyle—alive and apparently well, despite what he knew.
Harry turned on his heel, his mind whirling with questions. He needed answers. But for now, he needed to get home and figure out where to start.
-
By the time Harry arrived at Grimmauld Place, the sky had darkened to a deep shade of indigo, snow flurries swirling in the chill of the London night. He stood for a moment in front of Number Twelve, staring up at the tall, narrow structure squeezed between its Muggle neighbors. The house appeared as dark and uninviting as it had when he first set foot here all those years ago, but he knew better. He’d worked hard to make it something more than the gloomy, oppressive place it once was.
With a flick of his wand, the door creaked open, and Harry stepped inside. The warmth of the entryway wrapped around him, a stark contrast to the bitter cold outside. He shut the door behind him and glanced around, letting out a slow breath. The house was still. No shouts or laughter, no clatter of footsteps. Just silence.
Harry tossed his coat onto a hook and made his way down the narrow hall, the wooden floorboards creaking softly beneath his feet. He’d replaced most of the old Black family portraits that used to glare down at him with framed photographs of his own—pictures of Ron and Hermione, of Teddy grinning with Andromeda, even a few of Ginny laughing from the days when they were still together. But no matter how much he filled it, there was always a sense of emptiness in the old house. Grimmauld Place might be his, but it didn’t always feel like home.
He wandered into the living room, absently trailing his fingers along the back of the couch. The room was cluttered in a way that spoke of long hours spent alone—a few crumpled Daily Prophets scattered across the coffee table, a half-eaten sandwich abandoned on a small plate, and stacks of Auror case files piled high in the corners. An open book sat facedown on the arm of a chair, its pages marked by a battered bookmark Hermione had given him years ago.
The fireplace crackled softly, casting flickering shadows across the walls. Harry had left it burning before he’d gone out, more for the company than the warmth. He rubbed a hand over his face, the familiar weight of exhaustion settling over him. It was late, and he should probably head to bed, but the restless energy thrumming through him refused to settle.
With a sigh, he sank down onto the couch, leaning back and staring up at the ceiling. The quiet of Grimmauld Place pressed in around him, reminding him, as it always did, of just how empty it was. There was no Kreacher bustling about tonight; the old house-elf had taken to spending more time at Hogwarts lately, helping Winky and the other elves. Harry didn’t begrudge him for it—if anything, he was glad Kreacher had found a purpose outside these walls.
But that meant that when Harry came home, there was no one here. Just him and the creaking old house, filled with more memories than any one person could hold.
He glanced around the room again, his gaze drifting over the odd assortment of furniture and keepsakes. Sirius’s old motorbike helmet was perched on a shelf next to a small, carved figurine of a stag—one of the few remnants of his parents’ things. The battered old Snitch he’d caught in his very first Quidditch match rested on the mantelpiece beside a tiny, enchanted globe that spun slowly, showing all the locations the Order of the Phoenix had marked during the war.
Harry sighed, letting his head fall back against the couch. He’d spent years turning Grimmauld Place into a space that felt livable, if not truly home. But the truth was, it was still just a house—a lonely, too-quiet house where shadows stretched long into the night.
And now… now there was something else weighing on his mind. Something he couldn’t shake.
“Goyle,” he muttered to himself, the name sounding strange in the empty room.
Goyle, walking around London as if he hadn’t been confined to a hospital bed for years. Goyle, who Harry had been sure would never function properly again. He should have approached him, should have demanded answers, but… Harry closed his eyes, frustration gnawing at him.
Nothing made sense anymore.
With a grunt, Harry pushed himself up from the couch and began pacing the room, his gaze flicking restlessly over the bookshelves, the portraits, the flickering firelight. Maybe he was jumping to conclusions. Maybe Goyle’s recovery was just that—a recovery. But why had no one heard about it? Why had Malfoy never mentioned it, if they were still close?
And then there was Malfoy himself. Harry clenched his fists, his thoughts spinning back to the conversation they’d had in the Ministry hallway. Something about the way Malfoy spoke, the way he smiled, seemed… off. The ease with which he brushed off Harry’s questions wasn’t normal—at least, not for him. Malfoy was arrogant, sure, but never so smooth. Never so… controlled.
Harry shook his head, frustration building in his chest. He needed answers. And there was only one person who might be able to give him some insight.
Crossing the room, Harry knelt in front of the fireplace and grabbed a handful of Floo powder from the jar on the mantelpiece. He tossed it into the flames, watching as they roared to life, flaring green. “Neville Longbottom’s Cottage!” he called out clearly.
The fire swirled, and a moment later, Neville’s familiar face appeared amidst the dancing flames, blinking in surprise. He looked slightly disheveled, his hair sticking up at odd angles. Behind him, Harry could make out the faint outlines of potted plants and hanging herbs—a sure sign he’d been tending to his beloved garden before Harry’s sudden call.
“Harry?” Neville asked, his brow furrowing in confusion. “What’s going on? It’s late—everything alright?”
“Yeah, sorry to bother you, Neville,” Harry said quickly, leaning closer to the flames. “I just… I need to ask you something. It’s about St. Mungo’s. Have you been by recently?”
Neville’s frown deepened. “St. Mungo’s? I—well, I go every week to see Mum and Dad. Why? What’s this about?”
“Did you… happen to see Goyle?” Harry asked carefully, choosing his words. “You know, Gregory Goyle?”
Neville blinked, taken aback by the question. “Goyle?” He hesitated, his eyes darting sideways as though trying to recall some distant memory. “I mean, he was there for ages. But, about a year ago, I noticed his room was empty.”
Harry leaned forward, his pulse quickening. “Empty? What happened?”
“One of the nurses told me his mother had taken him away,” Neville said slowly, his gaze faraway. “Apparently, she wanted to move him to another facility. I thought the Aurors would have been notified, given what happened to him.”
Harry’s thoughts raced. “A year ago?” he repeated. “Why didn’t you ever mention this?”
Neville shrugged helplessly. “It didn’t seem like a big deal back then. I thought… well, if she moved him, it must have been for better care.” He paused, eyeing Harry curiously. “Why? What’s brought this on?”
“I… I thought I saw him today,” he admitted cautiously. “In London. He was… well, he looked perfectly fine. Like nothing had ever happened to him.” Harry said
Neville froze, his eyes widening. “You—what?” His voice was almost a whisper. “Harry, you’re saying you saw him, just… walking around?”
Harry nodded slowly, his gaze steady. “Yeah.”
Neville’s face tightened, his expression a mix of hope and anguish. “No, that’s not possible,” he said hoarsely, shaking his head. “Harry, he was… he was practically catatonic when I saw him last. There’s no way he could’ve recovered like that. If—if he did, then why didn’t it work for my parents? I’ve tried everything—every potion, every treatment, every healer, every spell.” He swallowed, struggling to keep his voice even. “If Goyle’s walking around like nothing happened… I—I don’t understand.”
Harry hesitated, guilt churning in his chest. “Neville… I could be wrong. Maybe it wasn’t him. Just… someone who looked similar.”
Neville nodded slowly, his gaze distant and troubled.
Harry’s heart sank, realizing just how deeply this would cut Neville. “Neville, I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I shouldn’t have—”
“No, it’s fine,” Neville murmured, his voice hollow. “It’s just… I can’t believe it. He must have been moved somewhere else, like they said. Maybe you should ask his mother?”
Harry hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Yeah, maybe,” he agreed softly, not wanting to give Neville false hope. “Look, I’m probably wrong. It was just a glimpse, and… well, it was Muggle London. He could’ve just looked like Goyle.”
Neville stared at him for a long moment, then nodded slowly, his expression strained. “Yeah,” he whispered, as if trying to convince himself. “Yeah, that must be it. You were mistaken.”
“Right,” Harry murmured, though he didn’t believe it for a second. “I just… thought I’d check with you, just in case. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine,” Neville repeated, his voice tight. “I’m glad you told me. But… Harry, if he really is out there… what does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” Harry admitted quietly. “But I’ll keep looking into it.”
Neville nodded, his gaze distant and troubled. “Okay. Just… be careful, alright? And if you find anything… let me know.”
“I will,” Harry promised softly. “Take care, Neville.”
“You too.” With a weak smile, Neville gave a half-hearted wave, and then the flames flickered, his face vanishing from the hearth.
The silence of Grimmauld Place seemed to close in around Harry, the weight of what he’d just uncovered pressing down on his shoulders like a heavy shroud.
Maybe Neville was right. Maybe he was mistaken. Maybe it wasn’t Goyle at all, just some lookalike. Maybe there was nothing strange going on.
But deep down, Harry knew he wasn’t mistaken.
Something had happened to Goyle—something that made him suddenly, miraculously recover. And if that were true… then what did it have to do with Malfoy?
Harry glanced up at the sleek fountain pen still resting innocently on the mantelpiece. The initials gleamed faintly in the low light, mocking him.
If this were any other situation, he would have let it go, convinced himself it was nothing more than coincidence. But this time, his instincts were screaming at him—telling him that this was only the beginning.
“Maybe I am paranoid,” he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair. “But if Malfoy’s involved, I have to find out how.”
Because if Goyle was out there, walking around as if he’d never been cursed, then that meant something.