Harry Potter and the Simulacrum Seal

Chapter Seven: The Rotting Man

It was three minutes before nine o'clock in the morning at the Ministry of Magic. Like on any weekday at such a time, the fireplaces in the left wall of the Atrium were running at full capacity as Ministry wizards and witches hurried to get to work on time. A dozen pairs of high heels, shoes, and the occasional set of bunny-eared slippers could be heard hustling to the golden gates at any moment. There they queued up, biting lips, shuffling feet, and looking at watches with trepidation, hoping to reach the front of the line before the clock struck nine.

One particular man--if he could be called a man--stepped out of the third gilded fireplace from the front. He walked away from the gates to the back of the line with no haste in his stride. He was an oddity, dressed all in black as he was; with black gloves covering his hands to above his wrists and the hood of his cloak thrown over his lowered head, not a sliver of skin could be seen. He garnered curious looks from the wizards and witches around him at first, but there was only so long that a slight, stationary figure could hold anyone's interest while they were all concerned with peeking over each other's heads to gauge how long they had to wait.

The line had barely budged three steps before a shrieking bell sounded, indicating the beginning of the work day. 'Mr Weasley said he would have to add a reprimand to my record if I was late again!' one young man said, groaning in dismay. The black-clad man's head shifted slightly as he listened, but aside from this he did nothing more than move one foot ahead of the other as the line slowly progressed.

It was fifteen past the hour by the time the man's turn came. He had watched Ministry employees being jostled by the sizeable security team at the gates, so when a young, slit-eyed man, wand in hand, called out to him roughly, the man showed no surprise at being treated in such a manner. Without hesitation, he took several unhurried steps forward.

'State your name and your business at the Ministry,' the young man said. Leering, he added, 'I don't recall seeing you around here before. If you're a visitor, you'll have to go through the full search and identification procedure over there.' He pointed his thumb to the side of the room.

'I am Elphias Doge with the Committee on Experimental Charms, Mr Savage,' the black-clad man said smoothly. He was still hunched over, his face not within view.

'Wand,' Savage said gruffly. He held out his hand impatiently as the older man slowly put his own gloved hand into his right pocket, closed his fingers around the wand there, brought it out, and handed it over. Savage took the wand and put it on the scales sitting on the small table beside him.

'Nine and three quarters inches, unicorn tail hair core, in use for seventy-six years,' Savage read off coldly. He took the piece of paper and handed it to a middle-aged man standing in wait; that man took off quickly for the side of the room, where there were floating rows and columns of papers and files.

'So when is this meeting you're going to, Doge?' Savage asked as he handed the older man his wand back, his left eye especially narrowed with apparent suspicion.

'Ten forty-five,' the black-clad man replied.

'So why are you showing up so early?' he demanded.

'The committee's secretary wants me to look over some abstracts on the charms we will be reviewing.'

'And why ...' Savage leaned over to get a good look at the man's face, but no matter how close he got it was still obscured. '... Why are you hiding your face?'

The black-clad man let out a wispy laugh. 'I was toying with a gardening charm to make moonflowers bloom in the day and ended up making myself as sensitive to sunlight as a vampire! I was outdoors at the time and I burned myself quite badly, but the healers at St Mungo's say it will heal itself over the next few days.' He reached with his left hand to pull down the glove on his right until his wrist was visible, revealing a mottled, badly burned patch of skin that caused Savage to make a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. A smell was released as soon as the glove was pulled down, the stench of a corpse left to rot in the sun for a week; Savage swallowed a mouthful of vomit.

'It's best for people not to see what my face looks like!' the black-clad man concluded, his voice playful. He pulled his glove back over his skin.

'Yes, I quite agree,' Savage said, the words tumbling from his mouth. His composure was gone. 'Er, do you have that wand identified yet, Brooks?' he called shakily over to the middle-aged man who had taken the wand's identification stub.

'Just a moment ... yes, it checks out,' Brooks called back, his voice muffled by the papers swirling around his head. 'Elphias Doge ... Experimental Charms Committee ... appointment at ten forty-five on the fourth floor.'

'You may go on, sir,' Savage said, taking several quick steps back.

'Thank you.' The black-clad man tugged on the top of his hood by way of salute and walked away, as unhurried as ever.

***

Bernie Wimple, a man who hated both his first and his last name, sat in his corner office on the fifth floor of the Ministry of Magic, the headquarters of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, sipping his second cup of coffee. Situated behind his large and strategically messy desk, he looked over his schedule for the day: a meeting through the fireplace with one of his Danish counterparts was featured that morning, and he made a special note to take in a third cup of coffee before that, because no one could bore him stiff quite like Rosencrans.

Bernie Wimple was holder of one of the British seats in the International Confederation of Wizards. It had been a dream job for years with its high pay and low work until around the time of the Ireland versus Bulgaria match at the Quidditch World Cup. Ever since the disaster after the match, his job had consisted of putting out one public relations fire after another. Organizing the Triwizard Tournament had been a nightmare, as had justifying the death that occurred in it to the international media. He thanked his lucky stars to that day that the dead competitor had been from Hogwarts instead of Beauxbatons or Durmstrang; it had been bad enough explaining to the Bulgarians that yes, their country's greatest Seeker had indeed been put under the Imperius Curse under Dumbledore's nose, and yes, we're awfully sorry. And damn that Beauxbatons girl for being related to the French Minister for Magic! It had taken a month to convince him not to organize a boycott of British products, and Fudge had been as utterly useless as always.

Then had come the year of questions, of Albus Dumbledore coming down with diarrhoea of the mouth about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named returning (did Dumbledore realize how long it had taken Bernie to assure everyone from Iceland to India that Dumbledore was delusional?). Then the breakout of those kooks from Azkaban had made the prison that had been the pride of the wizarding world for decades look like a laughingstock, coming so soon after the escape of Sirius Black; the jokes and sneers Bernie had endured at the conference in New York! Then Voldemort had returned and Bernie had only managed to save his own job and hide by acting even more furious with Fudge than he was, assuring all the diplomats he had inadvertently lied to that he had been fooled himself and was determined to get revenge for it. Scrimgeour had let Bernie keep his position after Bernie made a fervent and masterful recantation of every kiss he had ever bestowed upon Fudge's arse, laying all those kisses back on Scrimgeour's arse and more.

But Bernie was beginning to wonder if this job was worth the bother. His colleagues from other countries in the International Confederation of Wizards came to him with all sorts of concerns; they had been particularly antsy since Dumbledore's murder. Bernie was closer to Scrimgeour than he had ever been to Fudge, and ended up inadvertently knowing details that the other British members didn't, so he had become the man to go to for juicy information. It seemed to Bernie as though he spent half his life gossiping about the continuing war on He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and really, he would much rather settle down with a crossword all morning like he had in the good old days. There was also the other unwelcome attention he had received, but he didn't even like to think about that, and certainly not until after at least half a pack of cigarettes; anyway, Vaisey had probably been utterly drunk when he had asked ...

The door to Bernie's office opened a few inches, and he looked up from his schedule to see the face of his attractive secretary, whose fine-shaped lips painted meticulously with passion pink lipstick reminded him that his job wasn't really so bad. 'Ambassador Wimple, sir?' she said, her face squeezed between the door frame and the edge of the door. 'There's someone here to see you. He isn't on the schedule.'

'Then tell him to make an appointment,' Bernie grumbled, already turning back to his schedule while surreptitiously reading Quidditch stats from the newspaper underneath it.

'He insists that you said you wanted to see him. He says he doesn't do appointments, sir.'

'Unless he's the Keeper for the Wimbourne Wasps, I'm not interested. If he is, I want an autograph.'

Mindy, the secretary, let out a high-pitched giggle. With most women he would think it was false, but Mindy, bless her, was sweetly stupid. 'Yes, sir.' She shut the door behind her.

Not a minute later, Mindy returned. 'Sir, he says his name is Mr Riddle. He claims Mr Vaisey told him to--'

Bernie spewed a mouthful of coffee onto his desk before she even finished the sentence. 'Sir!' Mindy cried. She started to walk over, but Bernie waved her away frantically. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, brought his hand to his mouth, and chewed his nails, looking at his blinking secretary with the eyes of a deer caught in headlights. 'He claims Mr Vaisey told him to come see you, sir,' she finished, continuing to blink at him with vacant eyes.

'Uh ... uh ... s-send him in, I suppose,' Bernie said, his voice shaking along with the rest of him. Riddle? What sort of name is that? Some sort of code? Surely Vaisey didn't really ... I'm sure it's not actually Him ... Indeed, the entire idea was so absurd that Bernie let out a short laugh at his own silliness. It's probably someone from the Gobstones Club wanting to collect dues!

Bernie was trying to soak some of the spit-out coffee up off his desk with his shirt when the so-called Mr Riddle walked in. Bernie slammed his slightly overweight bottom down into his chair as he watched the visitor, covered in black from head to toe.

Riddle, as the man called himself, sat down elegantly in the chair in front of Bernie's desk, making not a sound save for the rustle of cloth as he arranged his robes around himself. 'Wimple, isn't it?' Riddle said in a cold voice. 'You may recall one of my associates having a word with you last week. You told him you refused to deal with anyone other than me directly ...' At this, Riddle let out a short, humourless laugh. '... So here I am.'

There was something about the man ... his voice, his gloved hands, the sneer Bernie could feel in his bones ... that left Bernie in no doubt that Riddle was who he was claiming to be. I wasn't serious! Bernie wanted to protest, but his jaw wouldn't do anything other than bob up and down. I mean, really, I never meant for ... for Him ... to turn up in my office! He had thought Vaisey was joking, drunk ... something. He'd never pegged him as being of that sort of crowd; after all, Vaisey was treasurer of Bernie's Gobstones Club! If you couldn't trust your Gobstones Club, who could you trust? There was still a part of Bernie that was hoping desperately that this was an impostor, but his hopes were fading fast, particularly as he caught a glint of glittering red eyes under the man's hood. The rest of his face was shrouded, and Bernie was grateful because he didn't think his heart could stand knowing what was under there.

'As I'm sure was explained to you thoroughly, I have some particular requests to make of you. You have the ear of some very influential people these days, I am told.'

'I-I ... yes, I suppose ...'

'I want your influence to be my influence. For the moment, you will only ensure that what the rest of the world hears about my ... quarrel with the Ministry makes it clear that I am winning. And I am winning.'

'I ... I ...'

Riddle reached in to his pocket, and Bernie was sure that he was going to be killed, but then Riddle withdrew his hand holding something too small to be a wand. 'Two daughters, isn't it? And one adorable little granddaughter. How old is she? Eleven, twelve months?' Riddle opened his fist to reveal a tiny rubber teething ring; he rolled it between his fingers. It looked just like the one Bernie had given to his granddaughter a few days before, and a whimper escaped his lips.

'I will ask more of you later. You will be of use to me when I take over the Ministry. It would be bothersome to have to replace everyone, after all.'

Bernie couldn't speak; he bit his lip to keep it from shaking. 'I'm certainly glad we had the chance to chat,' Riddle said, his sarcasm ringing clear. He stood up and placed the teething ring down in a puddle of coffee on the desk. 'Next time, you will speak with Vaisey.'

Bernie nodded emphatically. Riddle walked out.

***

'Your master will be very pleased,' the auburn-haired young man assured him cheerily, holding a small, square, silver snuff box in the palm of his hand. He spoke quickly and emphatically, like the ringmaster at a circus. 'This is the primo stuff, no substitutions, all the way from Nepal.'

The black-clad man was seated in a rickety wooden chair in the fifth-floor office of a man working for the International Magical Trading Standards Body. The room couldn't be more different from the one he had left minutes before; it was the size of a large broom cupboard, with stacks of paper and boxes of goods--some legal, most less so--obscuring every inch of dingy wall from view. The man holding the snuff box, who went by the name of Rex in black-market circles, was looking at him with eager, greedy eyes.

'Now, as for payment, you have to understand the trouble I went to for you people ... I mean, there are Class A Non-Tradeable Goods--dragon eggs, Chimaera eggs, and what have you, can be got from any two-bit crook--but this stuff,' he said, shaking the snuff box as he waved his arms dramatically, 'this stuff is so non-tradeable it's not even funny.'

'We have waited four months.' The black-clad man tapped his wand rhythmically against his knee.

Rex made the pained expression of a man remembering an unpleasant event. 'Eh, yeah, well, my original shipment ...'

'Give it to me. You'll be paid.'

'Uh, yeah, sure ... Don't open it, though ...' Rex handed over the snuff box. 'Seriously, that shit is not to be messed with.'

'Ignorant fool,' the black-clad man hissed, wasting no time in flipping open the small silver box with his thumb. Rex's eyes went wide with terror, and the black-clad man laughed at his reaction. 'If it could do harm on its own it wouldn't be considered a magical weapon, now would it?' he sneered. 'A common misconception. No, it is perfectly harmless until it is exposed to magic. A Muggle could eat it and would experience nothing more than minor indigestion.

'But if exposed to even the slightest sliver of magic,' he whispered, his eyes glittering beneath his hood as he gazed at the black powder, 'it will produce an explosive force impossible to block with any of the commonly-known Shield Charm variants. The detonation occurs so rapidly that even the handful of living wizards who might know how to block it would be blown to chunks before they could raise their wands ... such a clever weapon ...'

'T-that's pretty much it,' Rex said, wiping a layer of sweat off his brow and looking more than slightly disconcerted at the black-clad man's enthusiasm. 'W-well, I ... I think I ought to be paid now.'

'Yes,' the black-clad man agreed. He shut the lid of the snuff box with a click and sealed it with a silent locking charm, then dropped it into one of the inner pockets of his robes. 'I suppose we have reached that juncture in our relationship.' He pulled out his wand and, without ceremony, said, 'Avada Kedavra.'

Rex's corpse was thrown back into a chair and spilled halfway over the side inelegantly. The black-clad man looked down at his wand, then at the body, clearly displeased. '... terrible angle ... I do hope I'm not losing my touch ...' He moved his wrist from side to side before he found the spot he was looking for. 'Yes, that's where I should have aimed. For shame ...'

He slipped his wand back into his pocket and walked to the elevator.

***

She could sense the exact impact of each action she took, magnified and in slow motion: the echo of every footstep would rustle the robes of the man across the room; the moisture in every breath puffed out like a tiny cloud and then dissipated into minuscule silver glimmers; a cough was near-deafening. There was no light, yet everything could be seen through a dim blue haze. It was always like that in the room when the machine was turned on and working properly, and the effect was only magnified by the excited tingling running across her skin. 'Is the red light on? You can kick it if it isn't,' Clara called out.

Strangely, the louder one spoke, the softer the words came out in this unusual world they had made. She had forgotten that in her excitement, and so she had to repeat the same query in a whisper to make it carry across the room.

'It's all right,' Morris whispered back. The words tickled her ears like butterfly wings. 'I'm going to shut it down.'

All the brightness of the average workroom on the fourth floor of the Ministry of Magic returned, and Clara's sigh was as uninteresting as ever. It always felt like a loss when the machine was turned off at first, but she knew her senses would come to accept the disappointment in a minute or two. 'That trial went well,' she said, her voice plain and monotone; it was hard to feel alive.

'Yes,' Morris replied, just as mechanically. 'It went better than the one the Unspeakables did last night. I kept trying to tell them your tip about kicking it, but you know how they get ...'

'Hmm.' She sighed again. 'They would have to analyse the force of the kick, the exact location of impact ...'

'Boring lot.' Morris was coming back to life. Clara was feeling better, too.

'At least they're letting us show the committee,' she said. She ran her hands through her hair, just to feel. 'Though technically it's not a charm, exactly,'

Morris shook his head. 'It is so, Clara. How many times do I have to tell you? The machine is just a magnifier. Once we get the incantation right, we won't need it. We'll manage it with our wands.'

A smile spread across Clara's face. 'Won't that be exciting?'

'The Aurors will piss themselves. I wish the Unspeakables would let us tell them.'

'They're Unspeakables, what do you expect? They don't speak ... about anything.'

Morris put his hand on the machine to test the heat emanating off of it; it was already cool enough to touch, which was much better than the old days months ago when they had needed to wait for it to cool for hours. It was less of a machine and more of a mish-mash of charms and odd magical devices stuck together with luck and chewing gum, but Morris and Clara both had Muggle ancestry, so calling it a machine was a sort of private homage between them to their heritage.

'Weirdos, that's what those Unspeakables are. When is the Committee supposed to show again?'

'Ten forty-five,' Clara recited dutifully.

'We have nearly an hour to wait,' Morris grumbled.

They both turned abruptly at the sound of someone rustling the doorknob; Clara pointed her wand at it and unlocked it. Pig opened the door; he was a talentless, fat political appointee who ran their office, the Being Division of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and who was always sweating no matter what the temperature was. Clara honestly couldn't recall his name; she called him sir to his face and Pig to anyone else.

'Yes, sir?' Clara called neutrally.

'Some fellow named Elphias Doge is here to see you. Says he's with the Committee on Experimental Charms,' Pig oinked.

'Please send him in, sir,' she replied.

'Hmph, as if I'm your secretary ...' he mumbled, toddling off.

'You said the Committee wasn't going to be here for an hour!' Morris whispered frantically.

'That's what's on the schedule!' Clara replied. They shot whispers back and forth until footsteps approached close to the door; then they both turned to face it, standing stock still.

The man who entered wasn't at all what either Clara or Morris had expected; he was, to be truthful, downright creepy; even creepier than the creepiest Unspeakable. He was hunched over, his head shrouded by the hood of his black cloak, his face impossible to see. Clara had never met Elphias Doge, but she and Morris had enquired after what the committee members were like, and the words 'deeply disturbing' had never come up in relation to any of them.

'You must be Lara and Morris,' the black-clad man said, moving further into the room to approach them.

'Clara,' Clara corrected.

'My apologies.'

There was something unnatural about the timbre of his voice.

'Won't you sit down?' Morris asked, gesturing to the only chair in the room. They were lucky they even had one; their meagre funding rarely went to such items.

'Thank you, but I will stand.' The man straightened up his posture, which only made their perception of him switch from disturbing to frightening. Clara and Morris still couldn't see his face, and Clara was wondering whether he had some sort of charm on that obscured it. But why would he do that?

'You're ... here to see the machine?' Morris asked. Clara had half-expected Morris to complain that the man was early, but there was something about this man that made treating him with anything less than the utmost respect feel dangerous.

'Machine?' he asked, sardonic amusement carrying in his voice.

'The device that creates the charm effect,' Clara clarified, elbowing Morris for his slip. 'But perhaps you would rather wait until the other members of the Committee are present?'

'No,' he said dismissively. 'No, I don't intend to wait for them. That is it, is it not?' He moved his head around to look directly at the machine.

'Yes,' Morris said, perking up. He walked hastily over to the device and started to explain what each dial, light, and gizmo was for, but he trailed off after only a few moments. The man was making it very clear that he was uninterested by pointing his wand directly at Morris. Morris edged away from the machine slowly; the wand followed him until he had rejoined Clara.

'What ... what do you want?' Clara asked, now solidly frightened.

The wand was lowered, and a façade of sorts seemed to slide off the man like an unwanted second skin. 'Tell me,' he said, his voice disturbingly merry, 'how did you happen upon the research notes? I'm genuinely curious.'

Clara and Morris' jaws dropped in unison. It was their dirty little secret; they had never told anyone. 'How did you ...'

'I should warn you that boring me is bad for your health.'

Clara's jaw snapped shut and quivered. After biting her lip for several moments, she let it all out in a single breath. 'We were assigned to clear out the old files together ... all the files twenty years or older. It was ...' She laughed nervously. '... The notes were on pink parchment. I didn't even know there was pink parchment. They caught our attention.'

'... And you thought to make them your own. I suppose you thought it was very clever, stealing someone else's work.'

Clara gulped. Was that what this was all about? 'We're very sorry,' Clara said.

The man laughed. It was high and cold, and not at all pleasant to hear. Clara grabbed on to Morris' arm for dear life; his fingers dug into her shoulder. 'No you're not!' the man said.

'Sir ...' Morris said.

'Did you happen to catch the names of the original researchers--those whom you were planning to cheat of fame?' The black-clad man twirled his wand in his fingers and took a step toward them; Clara and Morris took a step back.

Clara knew Morris hadn't bothered remembering the old researcher's names; he didn't have a mind for details. Clara did, though. 'Maxwell Keddle was the lead researcher,' she offered. Maybe that would satisfy him?

'He was a buffoon,' the black-clad man said harshly. 'I recall being told that he wet himself before he was killed ... how ignominious.'

'Oh God,' Morris quivered. 'Please, God, don't kill us.' He sank out of Clara's arms to kneel on the floor, his arms wrapped around her knees.

'Aren't we the brave one?' the black-clad man commented. He made a guttural chuckle. 'Who else?' he then demanded.

Tears streamed down Clara's cheeks. 'Catalinus Harkiss,' she replied, unable to keep her voice from shaking. Could we scream for help? Would it be too late?

'I charmed the room to be soundproof when I entered, and your screams wouldn't be nearly entertaining enough to keep my interest, so I wouldn't recommend it. Screams of terror aren't as ... high-quality ... as screams of pain,' the black-clad man said casually. Clara let out a sob, wondering desperately how he could read her mind. He continued. 'Harkiss wasn't quite as much of an idiot as Keddle, but nothing particularly out of the ordinary ... just another leech on wizardkind. I came across him by happenstance while torturing some Muggles and killed him personally. He didn't deserve the honour.'

Clara could feel the black-clad man leering at them, even if she couldn't see his face. Morris had buried his face in Clara's leg; she could feel the vibration of his voice on her skin as he prayed.

'Avada Kedavra,' the man said abruptly. Clara didn't have time to react before Morris was dead. As his arms fell limp and his corpse collapsed onto the floor, Clara shrieked and jumped away from the body, backing into the wall.

'Talking while I'm talking is very rude. Now, who else?' he prompted.

Clara struggled to regain control over her vocal chords. Maybe if I say all the names right he'll let me go. Yes, he did seem the sort to play that kind of game. Her entire body shaking with fear, Clara recited name after name. The black-clad man continued his pattern of expressing contempt for the person and then giving a brief synopsis of his or her demise.

'T-that's all, I swear,' Clara said when she had run out of names. 'Please, that's all.'

The man shook his head slowly. 'No,' he said, 'there was one more.'

'There wasn't!' Clara protested, nearly screaming. 'Those are the only names that were listed! Please, let me go!'

A few moments of silence followed as Clara struggled for breath. 'It was her,' the man said softly, as if to himself. 'She was brilliant ... and coming from me that is quite a compliment ... She was the only one with an original thought in her head.' He sounded wistful. 'She was lucky she wasn't mentioned in the papers ... no, clever ... she asked not to be. It was clever, not cowardly. She was the only one who understood what this meant. It couldn't hold a candle to her later work, but ...'

With that, the man turned his wand on the machine; after a silent incantation and a blast of light, it crumbled into dust. 'Are the papers here?' he asked softly.

Clara nodded. 'Y-yes ... in the drawer there ...'

He made no move to reach them. '... A Dementor Net, they called it ... it would hail them and they would come like moths to a flame, and the moment they entered the field their existences would be warped and pulled away. That was the theory, anyway ... the old researchers never did get to test it in the field ... nor will you.'

'I swear I'll never -'

'Avada Kedavra.'

Clara's body fell to the ground. 'Better that time,' the black-clad man said, nodding to himself. He pointed his wand to the desk; it went up in flames.

***

Seven minutes later, the black-clad man exited the second-floor office of Arviragus Dearborn, head of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad. No one saw him enter or leave, for on this floor he was careful enough to use an invisibility spell to mask his presence. It made his progress through the hall difficult, as he had to weave his way through Ministry employee after Ministry employee, but he was quick on his feet, so none of them felt anything more than a curious whisper of fabric sweeping next to them.

'... got to get to the Muggle Prime Minister's office ...' he heard his next target say. 'See you tonight.'

'Yes,' the voice of a female Auror replied. 'Harry -'

The rest of the female Auror's words were lost as a pair of giggling interns passed by the black-clad man's position. The two Aurors parted, one passing back through the doors to the Auror office, while the other, the one the black-clad man was most interested in, went through the door to the men's bathroom. Carefully, the black-clad man shifted to the other side of the hall and pushed the door open when no one was looking. It shut behind him softly.

The bathroom was empty save for Shacklebolt, who was using the urinal furthest to the right. The black-clad man moved quietly away from the door until he had a clear aim, his footsteps creating no echo. As Shacklebolt's stream of urine dried up, the black-clad man pointed his wand at him, and in the softest whisper, cast the Killing Curse.

The body dropped into the urinal, causing a clang as Shacklebolt's belt buckle hit porcelain. Then it crashed to the floor. The black-clad man pointed his wand at the corpse and levitated it into one of the toilet stalls, taking no particular care to be quiet anymore. The corpse landed on the toilet, its head lolling back awkwardly and its feet splayed, arms hanging at its sides.

The black-clad man waited near the door for nearly ten minutes before the next person entered. He swept out of the bathroom before the door closed and took a turn down the hall, coming to a stop in front of an office with a wide window looking out into the hallway. The office itself contained several cubicles, a receptionist at the front, and a large corner office with a window showcasing its occupant and a golden nameplate on the door with the name 'Arthur Weasley' printed in bold black letters.

The black-clad man removed his invisibility spell and walked in.