The rain stopped abruptly, as if the sky itself had held its breath.
First, a thin ray of sunlight pierced the clouds, then another, until the sky fully brightened, illuminating the carnage with an almost poetic cruelty.
The bodies—or what remained of them—were piled like the leftovers of a macabre feast. Arms, legs, and torsos interwoven resembled a butcher's salad, each piece chewed at the whim of a hungry creature.
There was no way to tell which half belonged to whom. The Dursleys—save for the son who had survived—were mixed together, just as a particularly morbid poet would say they had grown more intimate with the Polkiss, with the Whittakers, and even with the Forests, who proudly flaunted their position as sixtieth in line to the British throne.
According to the preliminary count, there were 21 victims—a complete massacre.
Rufus Scrimgeour, candidate for Chancellor and Head of the Auror Department, observed the scene with a lit cigarette hanging from his lips. The smoke mingled with the scent of coagulated blood and soaked earth.
Beside him, Elias Thornwood—his assistant, a newly recruited auror in his early twenties—struggled not to faint.
If Rufus hadn't been a man hardened by wars and horrors worse than this, he might have vomited. His assistant, however, possessed no such resilience. The young auror fought to maintain his composure.
"Smell this, Thornwell," Rufus said, extending a small vial of Chrysalis Balm, its menthol aroma masking the stench of death. "If you throw up here, I'll make you catalog every file in the department."
The young man—Edgar Thornwell—obeyed immediately, inhaling deeply the metallic, minty scent.
"Tell me what we know so far," Rufus asked, his tone returning to professional.
One of the local agents approached and explained that members of the Order had been the first to arrive. He indicated where Dominus stood.
Rufus's steel-blue eyes fell on Dominus, standing alone at the edge of the Dursleys' ruined garden, his immaculate robes a sharp contrast to the chaos around him. In his hand, he held two pieces of a broken wand.
"The victims… at least most of them were already dead when a ten-meter creature feasted on their bodies. We believe it was Nagini, You-Know-Who's pet snake," explained the forensic wizard. "Afterward, the bodies were arranged like this. I keep wondering what message he intended."
"There is no message," Rufus replied bitterly. "Just a demonstration of how little other people's lives mean to him."
He cast another glance over the scene, where seers and trackers worked to gather evidence. But the truth was obvious to everyone: there was no mystery about who had caused the massacre.
Normally, a case like this would be assigned to a senior auror. But Rufus Scrimgeour—Head of the Auror Department and a candidate for Chancellor—needed to show presence in this particular situation.
Without hesitation, he approached Dominus.
The old wizard stood still, observing the scene with an unreadable expression.
"He took the boy?" Rufus asked bluntly.
Dominus did not look away from the horizon when he answered:
"No. But we still do not know Hadrian's whereabouts."
Rufus frowned, suspicion evident in his gaze. He could imagine the Order's guardians turning every stone looking for Hadrian.
"Don't tell me the great Dominus has no method to track his protégé? You lost your pupil like a Muggle loses their keys," Rufus spat, his voice dripping with accusation.
Dominus remained silent. The moment stretched, heavy, until Rufus cleared his throat in frustration.
"The three witnesses who survived?"
"They were taken somewhere safe," Dominus replied.
Rufus resisted the urge to demand interrogation. If they had been evacuated, it meant Dominus didn't want them giving statements. And since the matter wasn't essential—the trackers and seers were already handling it—Rufus didn't insist. He simply hissed in frustration:
"Safe like this?" He gestured toward the grotesque scene around them. "You know as well as I do that all of this will fall on your head. The boy was your responsibility. The protections that failed were yours."
Dominus raised his hand slightly. The air around them stilled, forming a moment of solemn tension. With a piercing glance, he cut Rufus off:
"You aspire to be Chancellor, Scrimgeour?" His voice was smooth, like a thin blade. Rufus fell silent.
"Then do not follow Cornelius's steps. The war has begun. What kind of leader will you be? One who blames allies instead of enemies? Tell me, Mr. Scrimgeour."
The atmosphere shifted. Even the investigators froze, as if time itself hesitated.
The silence between Dominus and Rufus became absolute. Everyone stood still, watching, as though the very air had grown too heavy to breathe.