Detective Marcus Reed stood in front of the two-story home at the end of Laurel Street, the twilight casting deep, stretching shadows over the quiet suburban road. The air had cooled, and the soft hum of cicadas added an eerie undertone to the scene. Everything should have been mundane here—neatly trimmed lawns, the distant glow of porch lights, the faint scent of barbecues lingering from earlier in the evening—but there was nothing ordinary about the scene before him. Above the slate roof of the Snyder residence, a green skull with a serpent tongue writhed in the air, glowing faintly like an unnatural aurora against the deepening indigo sky.

"Projection," Marcus muttered, squinting against the glare. 

He motioned to the tech team, but they just exchanged confused glances, each as baffled as him. No one could determine the source, and the ominous image showed no signs of flickering or fading.

He ducked under the yellow crime scene tape and stepped into the foyer. The house was chaos. Overturned furniture, shattered picture frames, and the scent of spilled ink told the story of a struggle. Marcus' eyes settled on the bodies—Mr. and Mrs. Snyder lay splayed on the living room floor, their expressions frozen in silent horror. Yet there were no cuts, bruises, or any discernible cause of death.

"Jesus," his partner, Detective Alan Holt, whispered beside him. "It's like they just... dropped dead."

Marcus nodded grimly, scanning the room. His gaze caught on the family portraits lined up on the mantle. A mother, a father, and a girl—smiling, full of life. Marcus stepped closer, the feeling of being watched creeping over him. The painted eyes seemed to follow him, shifting whenever he looked away. Once or twice, he could have sworn the figures moved, a slight flicker at the edges of his vision. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head.

"Get it together, Marcus," he muttered, running a hand over his stubbled jaw. His exhaustion from too many back-to-back cases was playing tricks on him.

"Anyone know where the daughter is?" Marcus asked, breaking the tense silence.

Alan shifted, glancing toward the door. "In the patrol car. She was the one who called it in."

Marcus's jaw clenched. A sixteen-year-old girl discovering her parents like this—it twisted something deep in his gut. He opened his mouth to ask more, but the front door creaked open, letting in a shaft of bright light. Two men stood in the entryway, their silhouettes framed by the streetlight.

Marcus turned, eyes narrowing. The men who entered couldn't have looked more out of place if they tried. They wore long robes that brushed the floor and pointed hats—Marcus couldn't decide if they belonged at a renaissance fair or a fantasy convention.

"Hey! This is a closed crime scene," Marcus snapped. Alan backed him up, one hand resting cautiously on the radio at his hip.

The taller of the two men, with sharp eyes and silver-threaded hair, barely spared them a glance. He stepped past the detectives and surveyed the scene with an air of detachment. The shorter man, red-faced and jittery, sighed as he looked at the bodies.

"A shame, this is," the shorter man muttered, shaking his head.

Marcus bristled, his patience wearing thin. "You're interfering with an active investigation. Identify yourselves, or you'll be removed from the premises."

"Doesn't make sense," the shorter man continued, his voice low but clear enough for Marcus to catch. "A pure-blood couple. Why target them?"

The taller man's eyes narrowed as he shifted his gaze up to the family portrait on the mantle. The painted figures—mother, father, and daughter—seemed to stare back at him, their smiles frozen in time. "Was the Trace monitoring this household?" he asked, his voice smooth and calculating.

The shorter man's brow creased in confusion. "No, it's not," he said, the realization dawning as he followed his partner's gaze to the portrait. His eyes widened. "You don't think the girl is a..."

The taller man's jaw tightened, and he nodded slowly. "Exactly. And that's why they were killed."

Marcus took a step forward, irritation sharpening his tone. "I said this is a restricted area! We'll have you arrested."

The silver-haired man turned, and for the first time, met Marcus' gaze with an unsettling intensity. His voice was calm, almost regretful. "You won't be doing that."

Before Marcus could react, a peculiar sensation washed over him—like a fog descending over his mind, erasing the urgency in his chest. He felt his grip on reality loosen, the world around him softening into an unfocused blur.

"Where is the girl?" the red-faced man asked, his voice sharp but hushed.

Alan, eyes glazed and unfocused, murmured, "In the patrol car."

The men nodded, and the shorter one reached into his robes, drawing out a slender stick of wood. With a simple flick, a sensation like a breeze swept through the room, and Marcus' mind darkened. He blinked, dazed and disoriented, feeling as though he had just woken up from a deep sleep.

The strange men were gone. The house was still, silent but for the distant wail of a siren, and Marcus looked at Alan, a question forming on his lips that he couldn't quite remember.

"Did you... see something?" Alan asked, his voice uncertain.

"No," Marcus replied, shaking his head slowly. "No, I didn't."

Outside, the last traces of the green skull began to dissolve, unnoticed by the muggles who wouldn't remember what they'd seen.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇ ⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

The first day of September dawned cool and crisp, with a golden light stretching across Hogsmeade. Ophelia Snyder sat by the window in her small room above the Three Broomsticks, her gaze fixed on the distant silhouette of Hogwarts. The spires of the castle stood proud against the morning sky, their familiar outline twisting something deep in her chest.

She'd dreamed of walking those halls, wand in hand, joining in the buzz of young witches and wizards as they raced to lessons, filled the Great Hall with chatter, and weaved magic with ease. But those dreams had turned hollow years ago, when it became clear that no letter of acceptance would ever come. The disappointment had dulled over time, but seeing the castle so close—right outside her window—brought back the ache, sharper than before.

She blinked, drawing her gaze away from the window and smoothing the hem of her apron. It was time to focus on today, on the routine that kept her grounded. With a final deep breath, she pushed herself up and headed down the narrow staircase, the wooden steps creaking under her feet.

Madam Rosmerta, her maternal great aunt and the owner of the Three Broomsticks, was already bustling about the main room of the pub. Sunlight slanted through the large front windows, catching on the bottles behind the bar and casting rainbows on the polished wooden tables. Rosmerta's auburn hair was pinned back, stray curls escaping as she arranged menus and straightened chairs. Her bright eyes lifted at the sound of Ophelia's approach.

"Morning, love," Rosmerta said, a warm smile softening the sharp lines of her face. "Sleep well?"

Ophelia forced a smile. "As well as ever," she said, avoiding the truth. Sleep came in fits and starts, haunted by memories of her parents' faces and the dark mark that stained the sky that night.

Rosmerta's knowing eyes lingered on her for a moment before she nodded. "Well, let's get this place ready. The early crowd will be in soon, and Merlin knows how the students arriving tonight will stir things up."

The familiar routine of opening the pub was a comfort. Ophelia wiped down tables, arranged the chairs, and set up the cutlery. The clinking of silver and the scent of warm, yeasty bread from the kitchen below worked like a balm on her nerves.

The bell above the door chimed, and in stepped Henry Quince, the wiry, gray-haired owner of Dervish & Banges. He was a fixture in the pub most mornings, always with a jovial air and quick wit.

"Morning, Rosmerta!" he called out, tipping his worn cap before resting it on the bar. His eyes sparkled with mischief as he took in Ophelia. "And there she is, you'll be quite the help when the school term starts up, won't you, Miss Ophelia?"

Ophelia mustered a grin, ducking her head. "I'll do my best, Mr. Quince."

Rosmerta chuckled, pouring him his usual mug of tea. "Don't tease her too much, Henry. Ophelia's been a godsend these past weeks."

He lifted his mug with a nod. "I'm sure of it, Rosmerta. With students piling in after, you'll be needing all hands on deck. And Ophelia, don't be shy. Word is, you were quite the promising student yourself, fresh from one of those fancy schools on the Continent, eh?"

A chill ran down Ophelia's spine, but she kept her smile steady. "Yes, graduated last year from Beauxbatons." The lie sat heavy on her tongue, like an uncut stone.

Henry's eyes softened, and he took a long sip of his tea. "Must be quite a change, coming here after that. But you'll fit right in, no doubt about it."

Ophelia managed a polite laugh as she busied herself with stacking plates, avoiding Rosmerta's sidelong glance. In the safety of the Three Broomsticks, surrounded by the familiar chatter and the warmth of the hearth, it was easy to pretend. But deep down, the truth was a gnawing reminder: she was a Squib in a wizard's world, a secret wrapped tight beneath the surface.

The conversation moved on, filled with Henry's stories and Rosmerta's easy laughter. But as Ophelia glanced out the window at the towering castle once more, she felt the sharp edge of guilt twist inside her. If only she hadn't been a Squib. If only she'd been magical, maybe her parents would still be alive. Maybe the Death Eaters would have passed their house by.

The bell over the door chimed again, pulling her from her thoughts. The day had begun, and with it, stories she would never be part of, but would forever watch from the sidelines.

-Authors Note-
This idea has been stuck in my head for a long time. I finally pulled the trigger and posted it!

I know the cover isn't great, so if anyone can recommend a good graphic shop please comment their username!

If you liked this chapter please vote/comment, it really would mean a lot to me!

This story will follow the timeline of the books, but I will be making a few changes. (in the books there is only one Hogsmeade trip that year. There will be more in my story)