The Veil of Shadows and blood

Chapter 2: The Investigation Begins

The next morning, the entire atmosphere at Hogwarts had shifted. The bright and cheerful halls of the castle were now cloaked in a heavy silence. Fear and shock gripped the students like a vice, and no matter where one went, whispers of Harry Potter's death followed. The Gryffindor common room, once filled with laughter and chatter, had become a graveyard of whispers, its students sitting in small clusters, talking in hushed voices. The fire in the hearth crackled, but the warmth it usually brought felt cold and distant.

Seamus Finnigan sat in one corner, his hands trembling as he held a letter from home, his knuckles white from gripping it too tightly. Lavender Brown paced back and forth near the window, her face pale, glancing nervously toward the Forbidden Forest. Dean Thomas sat with Neville Longbottom, both boys too stunned to speak. The reality hadn't fully settled in—Harry Potter, the hero of Hogwarts, their friend, was dead. Murdered.

Ginny Weasley had locked herself in the girls' dormitory. No one had seen her all morning, and no one dared disturb her. The news had hit her the hardest. They had all known Harry for years, but Ginny... she had loved him.

Rumors flew through the corridors faster than the professors could control them. Some said Harry had been killed by an escaped Death Eater, others whispered of dark creatures in the forest. And then there were those who spoke of a curse that had returned to Hogwarts, a curse that claimed the lives of the innocent. Every student had their own theory, and the tension was growing with each passing hour.

The professors, too, were on edge. They had tried to maintain order, but fear had already begun to seep into every corner of the castle. Lessons were canceled, students were told to stay in their common rooms, but that only fueled the paranoia. It was as if the walls themselves had begun to close in, suffocating them all.

Deep within the castle, in a dimly lit office tucked away in the dungeons, the heart of the investigation had begun. The flickering light of enchanted candles cast long shadows over the stone walls, and the air was thick with the weight of unspoken grief. Professor McGonagall, now Headmistress of Hogwarts, sat behind a large oak desk, her posture rigid, her lips pressed into a thin line. She had aged overnight, her usual sharp gaze dulled by the burden of responsibility and sorrow that now weighed heavily on her shoulders.

Across from her sat Kingsley Shacklebolt, the leader of the Auror team sent to investigate the murder. He was a man known for his composure, but today, even he seemed shaken. His broad shoulders were tense, and his usually impassive face was etched with lines of grief. He had seen more than his fair share of horrors during the war, but this—Harry's death—had struck a deep and personal chord.

"We need answers, Kingsley," McGonagall said, her voice tight with controlled anger. "The entire school is on edge. The students are frightened, and rumors are spreading like wildfire. We cannot afford panic. This must not be seen as a failure of Hogwarts."

Kingsley nodded solemnly. He understood the gravity of the situation. Harry wasn't just a student; he was a symbol of hope, of resilience. His death, especially under such horrifying circumstances, could shatter the fragile peace they had worked so hard to build after the war.

"The crime scene is..." Kingsley hesitated, searching for the right words. "Difficult."

McGonagall's sharp eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, 'difficult'?"

Kingsley sighed, running a hand over his bald head, as if the gesture could help him organize his thoughts. "Whoever did this was meticulous. There were no signs of a struggle, no evidence of a magical duel. It wasn't a fight—Harry was ambushed."

McGonagall's lips thinned, her knuckles white as she gripped the edge of her desk. "And yet? There's more, isn't there?"

Kingsley's eyes darkened, his voice lowering to barely a whisper, as if saying the words aloud would make them more real, more terrible. "There were... signs," he said slowly, carefully. "Signs of... rape."

The words hung in the air like a lead weight, the room growing colder with each passing second. McGonagall's face paled, her breath catching in her throat as she processed what Kingsley had just said. For a moment, the strong and indomitable woman who had survived two wars, who had led her students through unspeakable danger, faltered. She raised a trembling hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with shock and horror.

"Merlin's beard..." she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Kingsley looked away, unable to meet her gaze. "Harry was... violated before he was killed. The brutality of it... it's unlike anything we've seen in years."

McGonagall closed her eyes, a wave of nausea washing over her. It wasn't just the loss of Harry that sickened her; it was the way it had been done. The cruelty. The malice. Whoever had done this hadn't just wanted to kill Harry—they had wanted to desecrate him, to destroy everything he had stood for. This wasn't just murder. It was something far darker.

"We've searched the area thoroughly," Kingsley continued, his voice steadier now, though still laced with sorrow. "There's no trace of the killer. No magical signatures left behind, no witnesses. Nothing. Whoever did this knew what they were doing. They were careful. Too careful."

McGonagall remained silent, her mind racing as she tried to piece together the fragments of information they had. Harry had faced the darkest wizards of their time and survived. How could he have been ambushed so easily? And by whom?

"There was only one thing left at the scene," Kingsley added grimly. "The note."

McGonagall looked up sharply, her eyes narrowing. "What did it say?"

Kingsley reached into his cloak and pulled out a small, crumpled piece of parchment, stained with blood. He laid it carefully on the desk in front of her. McGonagall's eyes scanned the jagged, erratic handwriting, and her heart sank as she read the words:

The first of many.

She stared at the note, her mind spinning. The implications were chilling. This was only the beginning. Harry's murder wasn't an isolated act of violence—it was a declaration. A promise of more death to come.

"We're dealing with a killer who has a plan," Kingsley said, his voice grave. "And Harry was just the first."

McGonagall felt a cold dread settle in her chest. The war was supposed to be over. Voldemort was gone, his followers either dead or imprisoned. But now, a new darkness was creeping into their world, one they had not foreseen. And this time, it wasn't just about power or control—it was about fear. Whoever this killer was, they wanted to spread terror. To break them.

"We must act quickly," McGonagall said, her voice steely despite the fear gnawing at her insides. "We cannot let this continue. We must protect the students. And we must find out who did this before they strike again."

Kingsley nodded, already standing. "I'll bring in more Aurors, increase security around the castle. But Minerva... this won't be easy. Whoever did this... they're smart. And they're not done yet."

McGonagall watched as he left, her hands shaking slightly. She turned to look out the window, her gaze falling on the distant outline of the Forbidden Forest. Somewhere out there, a monster was lurking, and Hogwarts was no longer the safe haven it once was.

She had to find them—before anyone else died.