分卷阅读2（2 / 2）

Harry nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

On the way up to the penthouse suite, Harry wondered if he’d get a break in the case. It was a Thursday and the hotel seemed quieter than usual. Maybe he’d finally be able to sneak about and get a new lead. As the thought of asking the house elves for help popped into his mind, the lift stopped and the doors swished open.

Harry glanced up. Floor fourteen. Not the penthouse. He took a brief look. No one was waiting for the lift. On instinct, he moved to press the button and get moving. Until—“I can’t believe you’ve been lying this entire time!”

The raised voice carried from farther down the hall. Harry leaned forward and peered out of the lift as recognition dawned on him. His heart started beating wildly, and he blinked. It can’t be, he thought. He knew that voice. When his eyes found the figure standing at the far end of the hall in front of an open door, Harry’s mouth dropped.

It was him. It was actually him. His face, his features, his voice.

“This whole thing has been one lie after another!” the other Harry hissed. His arms flailed about in anger and then Harry finally realized what the other was wearing: a black mesh shirt and rainbow striped trousers. “Wait. This is when—” And then the other Harry turned and stared straight into Harry’s eyes, shock but also some odd form of understanding evident. He took one look at Harry in the lift and then threw himself through the open door and slammed it shut.

Harry stood dumbfounded, unmoving, and after a few moments the lift doors closed on their own and once again he was on his way to the penthouse. At the ding, the lift doors opened. It took him a few seconds, but he shook himself and stepped out into the top floor entryway. He didn’t notice the odd burning smell until he was right outside the doors. In fact, he’d barely registered anything until his foot scuffed on something. He looked down at the floor.

There on the white marble was a torn and blood-stained piece of the front page of the Prophet. Without thinking, Harry picked it up and put in his vest. The action seemed to rouse him from his thoughts and that’s when he realized the double doors to the penthouse were on fire. He recognized the thick mix of smells of the air—spell residue, burnt wood, and the metallic and sickening scent of blood.

“This coffee is old,” Igora Stramitz stated flatly before drawing the styrofoam cup back to her lips and downing the rest of the stale, bitter liquid. To her right, her partner, Felix Zaha, shook his head.

“You’d think the hotel would brew a fresh pot for law enforcement,” he replied, loud enough for the bellhop and hotel manager lurking in the corner to hear. If they heard, their terror stricken faces never showed it.

“You’d think.” Stramitz frowned. She kept her gaze trained on the steady stream of Aurors coming in and out of the partially charred penthouse doors. She waited until she recognized a senior official from the Edinburgh home office and then made a casual approach. “Auror Phillips, isn’t it?” Stramitz asked.

Phillips narrowed his eyes. “What is missing persons doing here?” He shot Stramitz and Zaha a cold glance before he turned back to the penthouse entrance and shivered noticeably. “This is dark, dark magic. A homicide. Or something.”

Felix had already started to answer. “We believe this incident has possible ties—”

“—probable.” Stramitz interrupted without a pause.

Felix continued, “Has probable ties to an ongoing missing persons case.” He pursed his lips but kept his focus on Auror Phillips. Igora had a good twenty five years on her partner and felt Felix had a lot to learn about the intricacies of language and technique.

Speaking of language, Stramitz blinked at Phillips. “What do you mean ‘or something’?”

Three minutes later and a mere fifteen feet into the penthouse, she’d stopped in her tracks, dumbfounded. The opulent and gaudy suite looked like a war zone. Merlin—Igora had fought in the war, and nothing had ever looked quite like this. Holes burnt through the furniture, bodies strewn about and missing limbs, blood splatter everywhere.

“Are those burns?” Felix asked to no one in particular as he knelt by the plush sofa and stared through the multiple holes in it, some of which with edges that still had dying embers.

Stramitz listed the scene before her, “The guy on the bed was torn in half. Another guy had his arm ripped off.” She glanced up. “There are bite marks on the ceiling.”