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Chapter Text

It was upon the turn of the millennium that I graduated from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and at once sought to pursue my desired wizarding profession of Healer. The training proved arduous, but eventually, I was given a position at St. Mungos Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, where I spent the following nine years. 

Upon my nearing the tenth, I felt the stirrings of restlessness in my soul that is often felt by many where the daily routine is concerned, and so opted for a change of scene in my work. Soon enough, I left on a three-year field assignment as medical supervisor for a zoological expedition to a remote region of Ethiopia. Our group was there in an attempt to document the nocturnal behavioral patterns of the African Mooncalf.

It was near the end of our second year when disaster struck. The group had set up an observation point in a clearing where it was predicted we might encounter several members of the rare Mooncalf species once night fell. Late into the afternoon most of us - myself included - had drifted off owing to a warm breeze and the fact that we had a long night's work ahead. As such, we were quite unprepared for the two male Erumpants that came thundering suddenly into the clearing engaged in a territorial dispute. 

Such a relentless tussle between two gargantuan beasts as these would have left all of us, no doubt, crushed beneath them if not for the few members of our party who still happened to be awake. They raised the alarm and all of us struggled to flee as quickly as possible. But even as we made to get away from the conflict the two Erumpants struck each other with their horns. For those unaware, Erumpant horns are filled with a dangerous fluid that causes a massive explosion with whatever they pierce. 

The piercing sounds of two gigantic blasts flooded the clearing simultaneously as the very ground trembled and then all was transformed into a frenzied blur as the blast wave hit and I found myself hurled several yards away as carelessly as a maple leaf in an Autumn gale. I collided hard with the ground and lost consciousness. 

What brought me to was a severe pain in my right leg. I strained my eyes to look, for I was too weak to move, and saw with horror that the explosion had ripped a terrible gash along my outer thigh. From the cries of pain nearby, I realized I was not the only one injured. 

It was a tragic and weary business for our group, although we were fortunate in that we received quick aid and treatment from a nearby village, which luckily had been within earshot of the blast. Despite my injuries being non-life-threatening, I returned to Britain due to the substantial limp I had developed and the increased risk to my safety with such a handicap should I remain. 

So it was, a fortnight after the incident, that I found myself sitting down to a bowl of porridge one chilly morning in the well-known wizarding pub, the Leaky Cauldron; wondering with pessimism what was to happen next. I had no permanent residence, nor relatives nearby. I felt no desire to return to St. Mungos, but what little money I had was hardly enough to meet adequate needs unless I could find steady work again. As I sat, contemplating my options, a familiar voice called to me. 

"Lenture? Is that you?"

I turned in my seat and exclaimed, “Olsen! My dear fellow, of all - it’s been years! How are you fairing?”

Chester Olsen, a former fellow Hogwarts student stood before me with a Daily Prophet clutched in one hand and the other extended to shake mine. His jovial expression was plain even through his reddish-brown beard as he replied, ”Better than expected considering my line of work."

"What would that be?" I asked as he sat down next to me and grabbed a piece of toast from a nearby stack.

"Accidental Magic Reversal Squad."

“Is it that unpleasant?"

“Could be worse. I usually get assigned incidents involving the need to clear or restore memories. You might recall I was always rather proficient with those charms." He swallowed and heaved a sigh, "let's just say that I'm glad I'm not among those who get stuck with splinch duty."

I winced at the thought and, to change the subject, plunged into an account of my own life’s doings since last we’d met. Olsen listened with fascination to the account of my days in Africa having never been abroad himself. When I had finished he looked at me with a mixture of admiration and sympathy. “Here you are then, experienced, weathered, yet clearly at a loss for a living situation."

"Just so.”

"Have you thought about housing with someone? Split the costs?"

“I’m not sure, can you think of anyone willing to put up with me?"

Olsen chuckled at this. "You're not the first person to say that to me today you know."

"Oh?”

"I met him through one of my assignments. He doesn't work for the Ministry, but I've heard of him helping them out on more than one occasion. He's a rather eccentric fellow if you follow. It would probably be more a question of you putting up with him. When I ran into him at the apothecary earlier this morning he told me he was planning to spend the day there. Recommended I buy some Salamander eggs. If we head there now I could introduce you.” 

This offer intrigued me so shortly thereafter, we headed outside the backdoor, gave the brick wall a tap with our wands, and proceeded into Diagon Alley. It had been some time since my last visit and I soon noticed several alterations, including a completely unfamiliar array of brooms in the display window of Quality Quidditch Supplies, a new cauldron shop by the title of Bogher’s All-Purpose Basins, and several additional floors added to the ever-popular Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. 

We reached Slug and Jiggers Apothecary, which was empty except for two people. One of the owners was behind the counter, reading a book entitled Failsafe Methods to test Herbs without involving the Unwary, and a tall man wearing a light grey overcoat stood in front of a large barrel of beetle eyes, apparently examining them closely. Olsen gestured me over to him. As we approached I heard him say, “Still only five Knuts a scoop, impressive.” He looked up as we reached him and smiled enthusiastically. He was possessed of a lean, but sturdy frame and his face shone with a lively fluidity. “Hello again, Olsen! Changed your mind about those Salamander eggs?” 

“I’m afraid not, but I found someone who may be interested in taking up your other offer about that flat you were looking to share.” Olsen gestured to me. “This is my old school friend, Thomas Lenture. Thomas, may I present Mr. Duncan Hughes.”

Hughes strode forward and shook my hand with a surprising strength and vigor. “A pleasure! You have just returned from Africa, no doubt?”

“How on earth did you know that?” I exclaimed. 

“Never mind!” He said laughing. “So, I am pleased that you are interested in the flat, but before we seal the agreement I must inquire about a few things.”

“Such as?”

“I tend to be quite varied in my activities often working late into the night and then resting for what you might call atypical lengths of time.”

“That’s fine with me. I am often caught by late nights myself.”

“Very good. Do have any objection to my experimenting about with potions at, shall we say - irregular intervals? It is a recreational hobby of mine.” 

“Not at all,” said I.

“Excellent, and finally I keep a fairly loose policy about household tidiness. You would of course be welcome to clean and arrange as you saw fit, but I would ask you refrain from attempting to revise the style with which I organize my own possessions. Can you do that?”

“Certainly,” I replied. 

“Splendid!” said Hughes, rubbing his hands together delightedly. “Well, I must get back to my business here, but perhaps you would like to drop by the apartment and have a look at the rooms tomorrow if you are able? I myself will be there in the early afternoon. The address is 221b Baker Street.” With that, he nodded cordially to each of us, scooped up a cluster of the beetle eyes and headed over to the counter.

Chapter Text

It was one o’clock sharp when I arrived at the given address the next day. The building was not overly fancy, but the exterior appeared to be well maintained. A landlady by the name of Mrs. Evans showed me up to the rooms where I found Hughes pacing around, inspecting the layout. 

“Mr. Lenture!” he greeted me as I came in. “Welcome! As you can tell we are hardly in the lap of luxury here, but the place is sturdy enough and the furnishings suitable for most needs.”

“This is agreeable,” said I, walking around the apartment. From the entrance, there was a sitting room with two armchairs by the small fireplace, and further down a sofa positioned in front of a large window. Past this to the left was the kitchen and to the right, there was a small hallway leading to a simple study, lavatory, and bedrooms. It was not terribly elegant, but it was pleasant, and being a man of simple tastes and in a position of need my mind was made up before I’d even finished my tour.  

“I am swayed,” I said coming back to Hughes. “These accommodations are quite fitting.”  

“Very good! I’ll make the final arrangements,” smiled Hughes, pleased with my appreciation. We parted ways as he went to find Mrs. Evans, and I returned to the Leaky Cauldron to gather what belongings I had. 

***

In the beginning of my time at Baker Street, I saw little of Mr. Hughes. This was due in part to my attempts to establish an independent practice as a healer within the area and thus I was often out introducing myself to whichever members of the magical community I could. On the rare occasion that Hughes and I were both in the apartment, Hughes kept mostly to the study, which did not bother me work-wise, but did often nag at my curiosity. In fact, as the days passed, I soon realized just how little I knew about the man and had learned even less since moving in. His dues were always delivered on time, but I did not know what he did for work. I caught snatches of a cauldron bubbling behind the study door several times a week and the pungent whiffs of whatever potions he was “experimenting about with” as he called it. 

His section of the sitting room bookshelf housed an assortment of titles as inexplicable as himself. There were a few well-known volumes; A History of Magic, 1000 Magical Herbs and Fungi, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, but far more perplexing were titles such as Extra Insult: A Guide to Experimental Hexes, Charms in Arms, The Encyclopedia of Wand Lore Editions 1-6, and Powerful Potions Anyone Can Make. 

There were also strange moments when I would catch Hughes lying in what appeared to be deep mediation on the sofa where he would remain this way for hours before suddenly springing up with unfathomable vigor and immediately doing one of three things: rushing out the door, rushing into the study, or scribbling a hasty letter for owl delivery. 

Each one of these oddities caused my curiosity to rise ever higher, but despite my best efforts to understand the lifestyle of my new companion, I remained at a loss. Eventually, I was forced to settle on contenting myself with my own work for the time being. By this point, I had gained a reasonable foothold with my practice and as there was no real reason to complain about my living situation, I let the matter rest.

Several months after my move to Baker Street, I arose one morning a good deal earlier than usual and thus found myself breakfasting together with Hughes for the first time. Aside from wishing one another good morning, we ate in silence until the arrival of the Daily Prophet provided by Hughes’s barn owl, Kenneth. I picked up my copy and glanced over the contents. 

There was a piece on the arrest of a man named Warrick Skirms who was being charged with fraud on claiming to have found a thirteenth use for dragon’s blood, an advertisement for the newest version of the game Gobstones (“Now enjoy the classic game with the new jumbo-sized Gobstone sets: guaranteed to pelt four times as much liquid into the face of the unfortunate loser,”) and the latest statistics on the Quidditch teams of Britain and Ireland with the Chudley Cannons predictably in last place. 

I was just about to close the paper when my eyes hovered over an intriguing editorial title: Deductive Logic and the Great Wizarding Fallacy. Curiously, I read over the piece and found it to be filled with a shrewd and practical tone. 

Since the dawn of the magical community, the article ran, Witches and Wizards have typically relied on magic as the primary source for solving all their problems no matter the context. While unquestionably superior to the muggle resources available for the same issues, such usage has inadvertently caused a rift between human logic and Wizarding logic. Deductive reasoning is a skill that is sadly not commonplace in the magical community and were it more in abundance, there would be far less bumbling about in the dark while trying to find the right spell for solutions.

Take for example this simple scenario: A wizard discovers a clutch of Ashwinder eggs in his house. The typical response as taught by the greater magical community is to perform a simple freezing charm on the eggs so as prevent them from igniting their surroundings. While this would seem at first to be the final and only solution for this problematic scenario, nothing in fact could be further from the truth. 

Now, if the wizard in the scenario instead possessed both his wand and the proper level of deductive logic, he would not only be able to freeze the eggs, but by properly examining the trail of ash left by the Ashwinder, he would know how long the Ashwinder had been alive, what type of magical fire it arose from, and most importantly in this situation, if it had laid any more eggs in the dwelling. A second scenario –

With a derisive laugh, I threw down the Daily Prophet next to the cream pitcher. “Honestly! What complete nonsense!” 

“What?” said Hughes, pausing on his toast to look across the table. 

“This article is about just the most implausible I’ve ever read!” I picked the paper back up and showed Hughes the piece. “Really now, how can anyone, wizard or muggle, be able to piece together that much information from a few clumps of ash? Who would write such twaddle?”

Hughes looked at me, evenly, “I did.”

“You!”

“Yes. As I mentioned in the article, I find that the art of deduction is one that nearly all of the modern wizarding community sorely lacks. This useful skill-set when mixed with magical knowledge creates a formidable combination of intellect and it is just such a combination that I myself possess and rely upon for a living.” 

“Come now!” I exclaimed, laughing. “It’s all very well to claim that such reasoning might be possible, but to actually use it in practice, not to mention relying on it for a living, is absurd.” 

“On the contrary,” said Hughes, “I have not only been using it in practice for a number of years, but I’ve also found it to be a most beneficial line of work. Do not mishear me; this is by no means a trait of common possession, even with muggles. Indeed, there exists among them scarcely enough to be called a portion, much less a majority. Yet for those signature few, this skill set affords them such abilities that would make even the mightiest witches' and wizards' heads turn, if they could but only observe.”

“But how then do you employ such skills?” I pressed. “Surely the field would be limited.”

“Again, quite the opposite. Deductive reasoning is not limited to the simple scenarios I describe in the article. It is possible to utilize it in nearly any given situation to obtain desired information. You yourself got a taste of it the day we met when I mentioned to your surprise that you had recently returned from Africa.”

“I confess I am still at a loss as to how you knew that.”

“I inferred it by quickly glancing over you. Thanks to long hours of habitual practice, my thought process took nearly no time at all, but the steps of reasoning themselves went, ‘This is a man with a medical background as the faded St. Mungos insignia stitched on to his collar clearly attests, the colors of his clothes are faded, the material weathered and his face is a good deal tanner than his lower neck. He has therefore been abroad recently and was most likely working in the field as a medical supervisor in a much warmer region. He is also limping unsteadily on his right leg, which suggests he injured it while abroad and probably had to return because of it. Now, what warm place for field study would require a St. Mungos-trained healer and also present the possibility of such severe physical injury? It was, in all probability by today’s circumstances, Africa.’ The entire train of deduction took only seconds. I mentioned that you had come back from Africa and you were astounded.”

“Incredible!” I exclaimed, smiling. “And yet, when you explain the entire sequence out like that it sounds obvious.” 

“To the practiced mind it is,” said Hughes, pleased by my praise. “But as I said, such minds are sadly rare today. That is why the ministry often calls upon me to aid them when their own levels of logic are outmatched.“

“Is that what you do then?”

Hughes having now finished his toast picked up a letter that had come with his copy of the Prophet. “Yes. I am perhaps what muggles might call a ‘detective.’ I provide deductive magical reasoning to those who require it in solving their problems.”

“Which branches of the ministry ask you for aid?”  

“More often than not, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. But, I have had the occasional request from others,” Hughes said, skimming over the letter’s contents as he spoke.

“Really?” I said. “And all by making use of the same method that you used with me?”

“Essentially, yes.”  

“What kinds of problems do you solve?”

 “If you are interested,” said Hughes, looking up, “perhaps you would like to accompany me tomorrow afternoon to the Ellis Moor Quidditch stadium.”

“For the match?” I asked.

“In part. Here,” Hughes handed me the letter he had been reading. “This letter was sent to me from someone who believes possible sabotage may be afoot, but cannot prove it. He has requested my presence and advice on the matter. You are welcome to join.”

The letter read, 

Dear Mr. Hughes, I am afraid I cannot say all I would like in a letter, but if you are able, please come by Ellis Moor for tomorrow’s match. I suspect something foul is stirring, but I have no means of confirming it and am at my wit’s end. I am in great need of your aid, Mr. Hughes. Give your name and ask for me at the ticketing office. They’ll direct you. 

Sincerely,

Malik Dorkins

I reread the name at the end. “Dorkins, I feel I’ve heard of him from somewhere. Isn’t he a Quidditch Official of sorts?” 

“Team manager of the Chudley Cannons,” Hughes replied, taking the letter back from me. “They’re playing the Kenmare Kestrals tomorrow.”

“It does sound intriguing, but given the circumstances, I worry that I may be a hindrance, were I to accompany you.”

“Oh, on the contrary,” said Hughes, “When it comes to Quidditch, I find there can never be too many healers around.”

Chapter Text

The next afternoon, Hughes and I disapparated from our modest Baker Street quarters and found ourselves in a small patch of forest just beyond the moor where the stadium was located. From where we arrived I could see the large circular stadium silhouetted against the afternoon sky and flags from the prime seat towers blowing in the breeze.

Hughes and I made our way out of the woods and were soon joined by the throngs of spectators heading to the match. People of all ages wearing either the emerald green of Kestrels or the bright orange of the Canons moved with excitement towards the structure. We passed by souvenir and concession stands and eventually reached the ticketing office just in front of the stadium. Hughes placidly approached the clerk behind the counter. 

“Good day, I am Duncan Hughes and this is my comrade Thomas Lenture. I was told to ask here about Malik Dorkins. I believe he is expecting us.”

The clerk peered over at us and nodded. “One moment,” he said in a wheezy voice. He disappeared from behind the ticket counter for a brief while then returned nodding again. “Go straight through the gate behind this office, I have unlocked it for you. Mr. Dorkins will meet you there, gentlemen.” 

We followed as instructed and after passing through the gate, found ourselves within the stadium underneath the stands and walking down a narrow path. Above us, the dark understructure of the stadium pressed in, but straight ahead I could see a light, which I assumed must be the Quidditch pitch. 

As we neared the end of the path I suddenly noticed two doors on either side and realized we must be just outside the teams’ locker rooms. We were feet away when one of the doors opened sharply and out came a man in orange robes with the Chudley Cannons logo splashed across the back. He was middle-aged, around forty-five or fifty, with a stubbly greying beard and broad facial features. He appeared to be rather preoccupied and looked as if he had not slept properly in a long while. When he spoke, it was in a weary tone. 

“Mr. Hughes?”

Hughes stepped forward extending his hand. “I am, and this is Thomas Lenture.” He nodded to me. The man shook hands with both of us nervously.

“I appreciate your coming down to help. As I said in my letter I am truly at the end of my nerve. Things may be about to get very out of hand and nobody except me seems to realize it.” 

“You are Mr. Dorkins then?” I inquired. 

“Yes sir. Malik Dorkins, Team Manager of the Chudley Cannons.”

“In your letter, you implied the possibility of sabotage occurring in this match,” said Hughes. “Clearly, however, you have more to tell.” 

“Quite so, Mr. Hughes. Come in here, and I’ll lay it all out for you.” Mr. Dorkins pushed open the door he had come out of and led the two of us into a large, well-lit, rectangular room lined with lockers and wooden benches throughout. Except for the three of us, the room was empty. 

“The team’s already out on the pitch warming up,” said Mr. Dorkins, wearily sitting down on one of the benches and resting his chin on his hands. Hughes and I stood waiting patiently as the distressed manager gathered his thoughts. 

Finally, he raised his head. “I suppose it’s best to start right at the beginning.” He said slowly. “I’ve been around the Cannons for a long time now. It comes with the family. My father, Ragmar Dorkins, ran this team before me. Well, Mr. Hughes I’m sure you’re well aware of the reputation of this team. We are not one for success. Our last triumph was more than ten years back when we tied against the Falmouth Falcons to break a sixteen-game losing streak. It was so unexpected my father who was managing at the time collapsed from shock. I took over soon after. I think that he left in part due to his health being affected by the shock, but also because he wanted to leave while still in the light of his only competitive achievement. Now you must understand I had no misgivings about what awaited me when I took this position. I knew the Chudley Cannons had never amounted to much and I knew that wasn’t going to change just because of me. We were, plain and simple, a bad team. But despite our professional incompetence, the players have spirit. As I’m not a married man myself and have no siblings either, they’re all I’ve got for family. They may not be the most skilled Quidditch players out there, but they’re good people, Mr. Hughes. Talking with them, you wouldn’t think they live lives filled with so many losses.” 

Mr. Dorkins smiled sadly and continued. “Well gentleman, now comes the hard part. What has been driving me to the brink and led me to call on your aid. About three weeks ago we were playing against Puddlemere United. My seeker, Marcus Higgs got it rough, much worse than usual. He typically finishes with no snitch and a few bludger bruises. 

That day, about twenty minutes into the match, Higgs got hit hard in the face by a bludger. I called time-out and we did our best to patch him up with some medi-potion but it only got worse from there. By the end of the match, he had received a broken arm, a shattered collarbone, and three cracked ribs from the bludgers as well as a concussion from the quaffle. The quaffle mind you! He was in St. Mungos for two days as a result. 

Well, serious injuries are certainly nothing new in the world of Quidditch. The spectators and officials settled for a ‘just having an extra bad day’ attitude and the rest of my team did their best to shrug it off. I was shaken, but there was no reason to suspect anything. But then, in our first match with Higgs, after he had recovered, it happened again. A bludger struck Higgs’ broom tail and sent him crashing into the stands. We attempted to patch him up once more, for he was mostly uninjured and just a little shaken. But when he took off it was disastrous. He lost several teeth from a collision with another player’s broom handle, got two broken legs from the bludgers, and suffered another headfirst crash into the stands while trying to catch the snitch. He went straight to St. Mungos again after the match and this time I felt my suspicions aroused. Even for a team as poorly skilled as ours, injuries of this magnitude wouldn’t occur so frequently by chance! 

I reported my concerns and had Higgs’ broom examined for jinxes. In addition, I checked and double-checked all the balls for signs of tampering too, but I found nothing. Not one jinx or charm on any of the bludgers, snitch, or even quaffle. Higgs’ broom checked out clean too. The officials at the Department of Magical Games and Sports wrote it off as a case of bad luck and I was left to let my nerves fester. 

With today’s match being our first with Higgs back since his second hospitalization and my worries reaching dangerous levels, I decided I had best call on you for advice, Mr. Hughes, since I’d heard of you helping with strange occurrences before. That is my problem gentleman, all of it right there.” 

Hughes, who had stood still during this story listening attentively, now stepped toward the tired manager and said, “This business is unsettling. A few questions before we proceed, Mr. Dorkins. How many medi-wizards do you currently employ for the Cannons?”

“Only three, sir.”

“Their names?”

“Mary O’keer, Donald Swift and Martin Simmons. 

“How long have they been with you?”

“Since my father ran things. Not the most skilled medi-wizards out there, but they’re honest and dedicated, Mr. Hughes.”

“Do you trust them?”

“Absolutely! They’d never shirk their duty, I’d stake my life on it.”  

“One more question, have you told anyone else about your seeking my help with this matter?”

“No, sir.”

“I see. Thank you. That is all I needed to know.”

“Then, you have some idea as to what this all means?” said Mr. Dorkins looking at us expectantly.  

Hughes nodded. “I do, but if we are to put an end to this, let us proceed carefully.” 

As he spoke he began to pace up and down the row of benches. “You are quite correct, Mr. Dorkins, in believing that your seeker is still in danger.  “Unfortunately we cannot cancel the game, but even if we could I do not think it would help us much in apprehending the party responsible. While we must expose them, however, we must also ensure the safety of your seeker. ”

“What would you have me do, Mr. Hughes?” asked the manager.

“I have three instructions for you, which you must follow. First, you will let the game proceed as planned, and betray as little concern as possible to your players and staff. Second, if Higgs becomes injured during play and needs to land and be attended to, you will insist on patching him up yourself and use healing spells only. No herbs, ointments, or potions. You must remember this second instruction especially. And third, you did well not to tell anyone else about my coming to help you with this issue. Please keep it so.” 

“I understand, Mr. Hughes. Anything else?”

Hughes glanced at me. “A pair of aisle seats near the pitch, if you would be so obliging.”

Chapter Text

A short while later I found myself sitting next to Hughes amidst the many cheering spectators. Hughes seemed remarkably calm given the inordinate enthusiasm of the surrounding crowd. “I must confess,” I said raising my voice so that Hughes could hear me over the tumult, “This business is fairly baffling.” 

Hughes looked at me mildly, “Indeed? I thought it most obvious.” 

I sighed, “You must know more than I. The entire affair seems a highly unique, not to mention complex, ordeal”

“I know just the same as you. We both heard the manager’s account. As for being unique and complex, it is neither. The source of this problem is quite clear and we will now attempt to force its exposure.” 

As he spoke, Hughes signaled to a vendor walking nearby and passed him some gold. The vendor took two large lens devices covered in multiple buttons and dials from a clump hanging around his neck and handed them over to Hughes. Hughes passed one to me. 

“There you are, Lenture. I believe a pair of omnioculars will come in handy more than usual for today’s match.” 

I raised the omnioculars to my eyes and looked around the stadium through the magnification lenses. The display board was showing team statistics - the Canons numbers substantially lower than the Kestrals - and most fans were eagerly scanning the pitch, watching the players warm-up. 

“There’s Mr. Dorkins,” said Hughes who was looking through his omnioculars too. “He appears to be keeping calm. Good.” 

Just then, there came a shrill whistle blast from the referee signaling the game’s start. The players rapidly assumed their starting positions and with another whistle blast, the match began. 

The crowd cheered louder than ever as the players flew to and fro all over the stadium. The game was intense, but it was not long before the Kestrals had pulled ahead of the Canons with five goals to one. 

Despite this lead, however, I noticed that the Canons’ fans were not losing any enthusiasm. I was not a frequent Quidditch spectator, but I’d seen enough to at least partially grasp the extraordinary excitement the sport brings.

Hughes on the other hand seemed altogether uninterested in the game as, glancing at him, I saw his omnioculars were fixed solely upon the Canons’ box where Mr. Dorkins, the team staff, and the reserve players were sitting. ”Do you see anything?” I inquired.

“Nothing of interest,“ replied Hughes, “But that may soon change. Would you be a sport and locate Mr. Higgs’ whereabouts for me?”

“One moment,” I scoured the area with my omniculars for a short while before catching sight of Higgs a ways above the Kestrals’ goal posts. “I see him.”

“What is he doing?”

“He seems to be circling above the game’s playing level. I’d wager he’s looking for the snitch.”

“Keep with him,” said Hughes still staring exclusively towards the Canons’ box. “Let me know the instant anything happens.” 

I followed Higgs’ progress as he continued to circle around the arena. Nothing seemed amiss with either him or his broom. “How is Mr. Dorkins doing?” I asked.

“He’s looking a bit more nervous, but seems to be holding it together so far,” replied Hughes. “He’s right up at the front of the team’s seating box. I can see some reserves and also the Canon’s three medi-wizards. They’re each watching attentively.” 

As the game continued, the Kestrals pressed on eventually scoring another seven goals making the score now 120 to ten. The tumult of the crowd began to reach new levels. I was still following Higgs, when suddenly with a burst of speed he dived towards the ground. 

“Hughes!” I cried, “Higgs is racing down!”

“Stay with him, Lenture!” Hughes called back. He was still looking at the Canon’s box, but his expression was excited now. 

I watched through my omnioculars as Higgs pelted towards the earth. As he got closer I saw a speck of gold hovering just above the field. 

“It’s the snitch!” I cried. “Higgs is trying to win the game!” 

By this point, the Kestrals’ seeker had noticed Higgs and was trying to catch up to him, but Higgs had too much of a head start. The stadium was bursting with screams from the fans of both teams. 

Then, out of nowhere, but with incredible speed, a bludger came hurtling towards Higgs. Higgs noticed it too late. The crowd bellowed in unison as the bludger smashed right into the front of Higgs’ broom handle. The force of the impact sent Higgs careening off course. Unable to regain control, he crashed into the ground and was flung off his broom, rolling for several feet before reaching a halt. A moment later there came a loud blast from the referee’s whistle signaling a time-out had been called. 

“Here they come,” said Hughes. “Mr. Dorkins is running out towards Higgs with two of his medi-wizards. Wait, I see the third one now too. A couple of reserves are coming as well. Mr. Dorkins looks very pale.” 

I looked past the now motionless body of Higgs and saw the people Hughes had mentioned running down the field, Mr. Dorkins in the lead. 

As they reached the injured Higgs, one of the medi-wizards began to kneel down to examine Higgs, but Mr. Dorkins moved between him and the seeker shaking his head. The medi-wizard stood up apparently confused. The other two medi-wizards who had also reached Higgs by now seemed to be likewise taken aback. Mr. Dorkins was talking very quickly to all three of them and gesturing to himself and then to Higgs. Although I could not hear his words, I was certain that he was attempting to carry out Hughes’ second instruction. While they looked reluctant, two of the medi-wizards seemed to understand Mr. Dorkins and began to head back towards the box with the few reserve players who had run out as well. 

The third one – a stocky-looking man of around forty years with curly brown hair – remained, however, and offered what looked like a small potion flask filled with a pink liquid to Mr. Dorkins, motioning towards Higgs as he did. Again, Mr. Dorkins shook his head, but the medi-wizard still did not leave and now began arguing earnestly with Mr. Dorkins. 

“Come Lenture! We have him!” called Hughes suddenly. I turned and saw with a start that Hughes was sprinting out of our seating box and down the steps towards the ground. Despite being entirely unclear as to what this was to accomplish, I immediately leapt out of my seat and rushed after Hughes. 

Together we raced down through the Quidditch stands, Hughes in the lead, quickly reaching the ground level. Hughes, with astonishing agility, vaulted over the fence separating the seats from the field. I clambered over after him and saw Hughes dashing towards the two figures of Mr. Dorkins and the medi-wizard. 

They were arguing more heatedly now, both looking angry. Our presence on the field was not unnoticed. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw three security wizards running toward us as well. I tried to call out to Hughes, but couldn’t find the air. 

By now Mr. Dorkins and the medi-wizard had noticed us too. Mr. Dorkins looked surprised and relieved, but the medi-wizard turned very pale and in a sharp motion drew out his wand and shot a jet of red light towards us. Hughes reached Mr. Dorkins, but ran past him after the medi-wizard who had already turned and was now sprinting towards the stands as though his life depended on it. Hughes had his wand out too and with a slashing movement managed to deflect the oncoming stunning spell. 

Panting in Hughes’ wake, I pulled out my wand as well but had to duck to avoid a second stunning spell, sent by our fleeing quarry. Glancing up, I saw Hughes closing in on the medi-wizard as they drew near the field’s edge. The medi-wizard raised his wand once more, but Hughes was too quick for him. 

“Expelliarmus!” 

The medi-wizard’s wand shot out of his hand as if from a springboard. Hughes followed up with a stunning spell of his own, but the medi-wizard ducked to avoid it. I raised my wand to cast one too, but then from somewhere in his robes, the medi-wizard pulled out a second wand, turned on his heel, and, with a loud crack disapparated.

Chapter Text

Hughes halted with a cry of frustration. “Ah! So close! We nearly had him! If not for that extra wand…” He sighed, but then shook himself slightly and said, “No matter, if we act quickly all may not be lost.” 

He pointed his wand at the medi-wizard’s first wand lying on the ground where it had landed after being disarmed and said ”Accio!” The wand flew up into the air towards Hughes who caught it. “Now, back to Mr. Dorkins!”

The two of us sped back to the Canon’s team box to where Mr. Dorkins, looking very distraught, stood by the injured Higgs. The other two Canons’ medi-wizards had carried him back from the field and were both kneeling down by the unfortunate man to heal him. 

The three security wizards who had run out onto the field during our chase were there too. One of them seemed to be questioning Mr. Dorkins while the other two were now attempting to hold off a steadily growing group of Daily Prophet reporters who had also ventured onto the field to see what was going on. 

“Ah, Mr. Hughes!” cried the manager as we approached, “They,” He gestured angrily to the security wizards, “want to know what’s happening, but I don’t know any more than them! Perhaps you can tell us what in the name of Merlin’s beard is going on?” 

“Gladly,” said Hughes, “But I must be brief for we have little time to spare.”

“Wait – Mr. Hughes wasn’t it? – Look here,” said the security wizard sounding confused, “We only ran out to stop you and your friend from disrupting the game, but then with this team’s medi-wizard firing stunning spells everywhere, I’m guessing there’s more to this. Mr. Dorkins tells me you’re here to help so I’m willing to give you a chance to explain, but you’d better have some answers.”  

Hughes nodded at the security wizard. “I will tell you what I can. Based on what you told me before the game, Mr. Dorkins, I deduced one of your medi-wizards was the culprit. 

The manager looked grave. “Yes, one of my own staff responsible… but how did you know who-?”

“I didn’t,” said Hughes, “At least not when you initially told me the problem. Since you had multiple medi-wizards and I had no time to see them, the quickest way to narrow down which one was responsible was to lay a simple trap to lure them out. I did so with your help, and here is our result. Unfortunately, all has not gone as planned. Our saboteur was more capable than I expected and has managed to escape. But it was not a wasted effort. We now have proof that he was planning another attempt to harm Mr. Higgs today.” 

“Who was that medi-wizard?” I asked.

“Martin Simmons,” answered Mr. Dorkins. “He’s been with the team for over fifteen years. I still can’t believe he’d do this! And why? What was his reason?”

“That,” said Hughes “We will find out once we catch him.”

“But what about this proof you say you have found?” inquired the security wizard. “I agree that a medi-wizard unexpectedly firing stunning spells and then disapparating like this looks suspicious, but how do you link that to a sabotage attempt on the seeker here?”

“Mr. Dorkins can give you a full account as to why that is so, but as we do not have time for that now, I will show you the two pieces of proof that we do have. Observe.” Hughes held up the wand he had disarmed from the medi-wizard, Simmons, and placed his own wand tip to tip against it. “Tribus Prior Incantato!”

Simmons’ wand shook slightly and shot two beams of faded red light up towards the sky in quick succession. A a vague glow of yellow light emanated up from the wand’s tip and then a dark wispy sphere was expelled, and hovered above us for a moment before fading away. 

“A confundus charm!” I exclaimed. 

“Correct,” said Hughes. “Before casting those two stunning spells at us, the last spell this wand performed was a confundus charm on none other than one of the bludgers in the game. It was not chance that Higgs was hit by that bludger, gentleman. It was a carefully timed charm.” 

Mr. Dorkins and the security wizard were looking at Hughes with their mouths open in astonishment. Finally, the security wizard managed to say, “And the other piece of proof?”

Hughes knelt down and picked up a small glass vial that was lying on the field near Mr. Dorkins’ shoes. It had not been opened and was filled with a pink potion of some kind. 

“That’s the medi-potion Simmons was trying to give to Higgs after he crashed.” said the manager, frowning. “He was arguing with me about treating Higgs with it, but I wouldn’t let him because of what you told me Mr. Hughes about not using any potions or such. I suppose he must have dropped it when he ran off.” 

“Quite so,” said Hughes. “You did well to make sure he did not receive any. Take a closer look at this potion. You too, Lenture. Tell me what you see.”

I took the vial from Hughes and together Mr. Dorkins and I examined its contents closely. The potion was thick and bright pink except for what appeared to be several small bubbles of a clear and lighter liquid that swirled around separately from the rest of the mixture. “Are those bubbles normal?” I asked. 

“No,” replied Mr. Dorkins. “Something’s been added to this medi-potion. Do know what it could be, Mr. Hughes?”

“Very likely some type of venom or other toxic mixture intended to give further harm to Mr. Higgs. It wouldn’t have been the first time. This is certainly what caused him to become hospitalized after each of those two previous matches. A confundus charm will only do so much after all.”  

“You mean to say,” gasped Mr. Dorkins staring at Hughes, “that in those other games where Higgs was injured, it was Simmons who caused them? By confounding the bludgers to hurt Higgs, forcing him to land? And all just to spike his medi-potion with goodness knows whatever this is?”

“Precisely,” said Hughes. “And now gentlemen I have told you all I can at present. We must act quickly if we are to catch our sabotaging medi-wizard. Mr. Dorkins, would you happen to know Martin Simmons’ address?”

“Number eleven, Langdon Crescent. In apartment six,” the manager replied.

“Excellent. Kindly send a message by patronus to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement at once and inform them of all that has transpired here, as well as what you told me before the game. Have them send a team to Mr. Simmons’ address as soon as possible.” The manager nodded. Hughes then addressed the security wizards; “Coordinate as necessary with the Ministry, but do try and ensure as much discretion as possible until this matter is solved. The spectators here know something happened, but they don’t know what and we would do well to respect the team’s privacy.”

“Very well, Mr. Hughes,” replied the first. “This business sounds rather muddled, but as you do seem to know what’s going on, I’ll trust to your word.”

 “But Mr. Hughes,” Mr. Dorkins interjected, “you don’t think he’s gone home, do you? After what he’s done here, isn’t he more likely to go on the run?” 

“We shall see,” said Hughes, and turning to me continued, “Well my friend, I must be off. Will you be returning to Baker Street?” 

“If it’s all the same, I would much prefer to continue along,” said I. “This is turning into quite the adventure!” 

Hughes smiled appreciatively. “Onwards then, my dear Lenture. Let us see what the rest of the day holds.”

Chapter Text

After disapparating from Ellis Moor, I found myself strolling alongside Hughes down Langdon Crescent, a pleasant little street with numerous townhouses and apartments on either side of the road. It was nearing evening now and the air felt cool and refreshing after the heated energy of the stadium. Except for a muggle in a car that soon passed by, the street was quiet and empty.

Hughes was walking briskly but seemed relaxed again. I myself was inclined to enjoy the serenity of our surroundings, but my amazement from all that had happened back at the stadium and what my companion had proven there refused to wane. For despite the progress that had been made, there was still much about this business I was unclear on.

“You left quite an impression back there,” I remarked. 

“As you yourself can attest to, many become rather captivated when I demonstrate my methods,” chuckled Hughes.

“I won’t deny it, but there is something that I don’t understand.”

“Yes?”

“How did you know it was one of the Canon’s medi-wizards who was responsible in the first place?”

“Through a simple stream of reasoning listening to Mr. Dorkins’ story. What struck me as peculiar was that both times it was a bludger that initially caused Mr. Higgs to have to land and be treated. And yet, each time he went back up he was then hurt so severely in multiple ways that he had to be hospitalized. This led me to believe that something was happening between the times he landed and when he flew back up that then caused him to be harmed in a more serious fashion. Now, since the only thing that happened to Higgs over this period was to be patched up and treated by the team’s medi-wizards it had to be one of them who was responsible.”

“I see. But then, how did you realize that their choice of sabotage was poisoning the medi-potion?”

“As I said back at the stadium, a confundus charm will only do so much. I realized that the bludgers must have been charmed, but very covertly and probably just long enough to injure Higgs and force a landing, so as not to be detected. Otherwise, the officials would have noticed its presence when they checked the equipment at Mr. Dorkins’ request. Therefore to continue the sabotage and to raise the level of harm, a new more subtle method would be needed. Now, because I knew at least one of the medi-wizards was responsible and that the second part of the sabotage had to be occurring while Higgs was being treated, it was logical to suppose that the source was either a spiked medi-potion or laced ointment of some sort as a spell would not go unnoticed by others.”

“Brilliant!” I exclaimed. “I wonder I did not see it before.”

“I am sure you saw it just fine. Whether you observed it, however, is doubtlessly another matter.” 

We had reached number eleven and approached the front door from a small path leading in from the main sidewalk. Hughes tried the door, but it was locked. 

“No matter,” he said smiling. He glanced around, then quickly pulled out his wand and tapped the doorknob saying, “Alohomora.” 

The lock gave a click and with a slight creak, the door swung open. 

We entered and found ourselves in a small and somewhat dusty hallway, with a flight of stairs directly in front of us leading to the upper apartments. 

Hughes glanced at apartments one, two, and three on the ground level, then whispered, “second floor, Lenture, and let us move quietly.” 

Together we crept up the stairs, Hughes in the lead until we reached the landing of the second floor. Hughes gestured silently to a door on our left marked with a brass number six. I nodded in response and drew out my wand as Hughes did the same. 

Hughes reached for the doorknob but found it to be locked too. He tapped the door and whispered “Alohomora,” once more, but nothing happened. 

“Magically sealed,” said Hughes with some disappointment. “I’d hoped that he would be in too much of a hurry.”

He straightened himself and ceased his whispering. “No use in staying discreet, Lenture. I’m afraid we’re going to have to resort to a noisier means of entry. Be ready. If our man is here, he will know we’re coming.” 

Hughes stepped back from the door motioning me to follow, and with a flick of his wrist he shouted, “Reducto!” 

The curse hit the door of number six and, with a crash, it flew open - its hinges snapping apart in the process. 

Hughes and I darted forward into the apartment. It was dark, except for the evening light coming through its windows. I looked around wildly but could make out very little. 

“Lumos!” I said, causing my wand tip to shine with light and illuminate my surroundings. 

The entrance hall was narrow and did not offer much room to maneuver. As I pressed forward through the gloom I caught a whiff of a nasty odor coming from the kitchen that resembled a mix of manure and dead fish. It made me cough, but I kept alert and did my best to keep looking around. 

To my left, Hughes raised his wand and said “Homenum Revelio.” There came a whooshing sound that swept through the whole apartment. “We are alone here,” he said after the sound ended. “Let us search and see what we may discover as to our man’s whereabouts.” Using his wand he lit the lights, throwing the whole apartment into view. The place was small with very little furniture and much of it was covered in a fine layer of dust. Several cobwebs were silhouetted against the now-lit lights. There were several pieces of broken glass and wood littered about the sitting room as well as some scorch marks on the walls. 

“It looks as though there was a struggle here,” I remarked. 

“But one that happened at least a month ago judging by the dust,” said Hughes stepping through debris. ”This would appear to go deeper than I expected.”

We passed through the wrecked sitting room and reached the bedroom on the opposite end. Hughes pushed open the door and we entered. The bed was plain and looked like nobody had slept in it for some time. Aside from the bed, the only other things in the room were an old oakwood dresser and a heavily scuffed door to what was likely a closet. 

Hughes grasped the handle and pulled it open. The light fell on the closet’s interior and I gasped in shock. Beyond the door, slumped against the wall of the closet was the body of Martin Simmons! 

The eyes were expressionless and glazed over, and the skin was a ghostly pale. I bent down carefully to examine him. He proved cold to the touch and I felt no pulse. 

“He’s dead,” I said, looking perplexed at Hughes. Hughes was about to reply when suddenly there came the sound of footsteps approaching from outside the room. I stood up quickly and Hughes raised his wand towards the doorway.  

“Who’s there?” He called loudly.

The footsteps halted. “Magical Law Enforcement, here by request to investigate,” replied a hardy voice.

Hughes relaxed. “Excellent timing!” he said lowering his wand. “Come in, please!” 

Upon his bidding, three men entered the room. Two were dressed in light blue uniforms with matching caps. Both had their wands out. 

The third man, who stood between them, was wearing a black overcoat with a dark gray suit and maroon tie underneath. His face looked weathered and stern below his furrowed brow and head of clean-cut, but steadily graying hair. Flanked by his two companions, his eyes fell upon the lifeless body of Simmons and an expression of grim acceptance crossed his face.

“Always a body,” he muttered. Then in a more robust tone said, “I figured that might be you here, Mr. Hughes. That patronus message said you were involved. Who’s your friend?”

“This is my comrade Thomas Lenture, a former St. Mungos Healer who is assisting me with this business,” said Hughes looking over to me. I nodded and shook hands with the man as Hughes continued, “Lenture, this is Sergeant Reginald Creedy from the patrol division of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.” 

“Mr. Hughes has been of service to the department before. Easy you two,” said Creedy; frowning at his two aids who still had had their wands raised. “Remember that incident with the Chimera and the Floo Network? It’s thanks to him that we were able to sort that out.” Both lowered their wands at this. 

“Right then,” Creedy resumed. “I heard all that’s happened so far from Mr. Dorkins’ patronus.” He looked back at the corpse of Simmons still slouched in the open doorway of the closet. “Shame it had to end this way. I would have liked to hear the whole story.” 

“What do you mean?” I asked. 

“Well, as best as I can tell this poor fellow here matches the description of the one that fled from Ellis Moor Stadium earlier today. But, if he is responsible for the sabotage, there’s no way we’ll get the truth from him now. Probably a panic or guilt-induced suicide. I’ve seen plenty before.”

Hughes, who had been leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and looking amused while Creedy spoke, now said, “As seamless as your theory may present, sergeant, I’m afraid you would find it to be incorrect. This man here is not the man responsible for what has happened.” 

“And how do you figure, Mr. Hughes?” Creedy asked, with obvious irritation.

“Take a close look at his hair,” said Hughes, “Both of you. Then come meet me in the kitchen.” With this, he strode from the room. Despite puzzlement from Hughes’ requests, I knelt down again by the body and examined the hair. 

“Strange,” I said after a few moments.

“What is?” asked Creedy who was still standing, but leaning in to look too.

“I didn’t notice it at first, but the hair is different from how it looked earlier when Hughes and I saw him at Ellis Moor. There, it was full and curly, but looking at it now I can see several places where it’s much shorter and uneven.”

“You’re right,” said the Sergeant, eyeing where I pointed. “It looks like it's been removed in clumps from several areas around the head. There’s something else too. I can’t see any signs of violence on him that could explain the cause of his death. You’re a healer, right? Is there anything that could account for it? Poison, maybe?” 

I inspected the dead man’s pallor and jaw. “I don’t think so,” I replied. “There’s no puncture marks, bruises, skin blemishes, or markings of any kind for that matter.” I hesitated, but the grim truth was plain. 

“The Avada Kedavra curse then,” said Creedy heavily. “Let’s go find Mr. Hughes.”   

We passed back through the debris-ridden sitting room and into the kitchen. As we entered, the smell of the foul odor from earlier grew, making us both stiffen with disgust. It was a stuffy little place with a table crammed into the corner upon which was an assortment of jars and flasks containing different quantities of potion ingredients. On the stove was a large pewter cauldron with what looked like the dregs of a thick murky potion still inside. It was this that gave off the horrid smell of compost. There were dirty dishes stacked everywhere. The other half of the repugnant odor, resembling dead fish, seemed to be coming from the sink, which was filled with water. Hughes, who was standing by the sink examining something, turned to face us with a gleeful look.

“I have given our man too much credit for discretion!” He laughed, clearly not minding the nasty reek in the slightest. “This room alone has told me everything and then some!” 

“You’ve certainly got an eye for detail, Mr. Hughes,” said Creedy, getting the words out with some difficulty from the odor. “Mr. Lenture and I noticed that the hair is uneven in places, possibly having been physically removed, which Mr. Lenture informs me is different then from what you saw at the Quidditch game.”

“It has indeed been physically removed,” said Hughes. “And for the purpose of being used in this,” He pointed at the cauldron on the stove. “Polyjuice potion!” Hughes said with triumph. “Rare and quite difficult to brew, but clearly recognizable by its muddy form and distinctive smell.”

Creedy looked stunned. “Then the man responsible is-”

“An imposter yes,” Hughes finished. “The dead man back there is Martin Simmons, but someone has stolen his identity and used it as a cover to commit these acts of sabotage.”

“I see,” said Creedy, looking impressed. “Then, this man, this imposter I mean, also killed the real Martin Simmons?”

“More than likely.”

“But how are we to catch him?” I asked puzzled. “Since he’s been disguised as Martin Simmons through Polyjuice potion we have no idea who the real perpetrator is, or what they look like.”

“Do not worry yourself needlessly, my dear Lenture,” said Hughes. “We have more of an advantage here than you think. The amount of time for which the effects of the Polyjuice potion last depends on both how much is consumed and how well it has been prepared. This batch here has not been brewed well, but it has been produced in a fairly large amount judging from the size of the cauldron. This means our man was not especially skilled with potions but needed the effects to last for a long time. A batch this large, if drunk all at once, should remain ongoing for about fifteen hours.”

“But, supposing he didn’t drink it all?” objected Creedy.

“I think we may be sure he did,” said Hughes. “Recall, he was masquerading as an active duty medi-wizard. He would have needed to be able to stay in disguise for as long as possible in case the Quidditch match turned out to be a lengthy one. Taking any of it with him would have only increased his chances of his being caught. Potion knowledge is common among medi-wizards and one as distinct as Polyjuice would have aroused immediate suspicion. More importantly, however, this means that our man has almost certainly not yet changed back to his real appearance and still bears the resemblance of Martin Simmons.”

“Then we must catch him while we still know what he looks like,” Creedy declared.

“Most definitely and by good fortune our man has left us the key to doing that,” smiled Hughes. He turned back to the sink, reached into the basin, and pulled out, to our astonishment, a large sea creature of some sort. It was about ten inches long with spindly legs and covered in a light grey shell with patches of green. Hughes held it up motionless in his grip.

“Is it dead?” I asked.

“No, just frozen by an immobilization charm. He has kept it alive, but barely. Do either of you recognize what kind of creature this is?”

I shook my head. 

“It looks like a lobster,” ventured Creedy, “but I’ve never seen one with that coloration before.” 

Hughes grinned. “While it may look like a lobster this, gentlemen, is in fact a Mackled Malaclaw. It is a solitary ocean dweller that feeds on crustaceans and is mostly unremarkable, save for one interesting feature: the venom from a Malaclaw’s bite has the effect of temporarily rendering the victim extremely unlucky.”

Comprehension dawned on Creedy’s face. “This is the source then?” he asked keenly, “This is what was added to the medi-potion to cause the sabotage?” 

“Unquestionably. Any witch or wizard knows there are few things more unlucky than Quidditch injuries,” said Hughes. “But, we have dallied enough. Time is on our side and we should not abuse it. Look closely.” 

With his free hand Hughes pointed to a spot on the Malaclaw where, as I looked, I saw a small insignia resembling a single water droplet within a double circle that had been carved magically into the shell.

“It appears to be a symbol of some sort,” I said. “But I don’t recognize it.”

“I do,” said Creedy. “That’s the company emblem for Waker’s Aquatic Wonders in Diagon Alley. I didn’t realize they dealt with this kind of activity.” 

“They don’t,” said Hughes. “I know them by reputation and they are a bit naïve in their dealings perhaps, but not illegally connected by any means. If we are tactful they will provide all we need. Now come, let us be off at once.”

Chapter Text

One apparition and ten minutes later, Hughes and I, now joined by Creedy and one of his patrol aides, made our way through Diagon Alley. Creedy had sent the other back to the Ministry with instructions to inform his superiors of the case’s progress and to bring a “cleanup crew,” back to the apartment. 

We passed quickly through the shop-filled streets and soon reached a shiny, cerulean-colored building with the same symbol on its door as the Malaclaw’s shell.

The interior of the shop was colored all in different shades of blue and brimming with water tanks containing countless aquatic animals including Sea Horses, Crabs, Plimpies, Murtlaps, an octopus, and dozens upon dozens of fish. 

We made our way through this oceanic menagerie to the counter where a portly man around fifty years raised a hand.

“Welcome gents!” he said cheerfully. “How might I help you?”

Hughes and Creedy stepped forwards while Creedy’s aide and myself lingered close behind. “Sergeant Creedy, Magical Law Enforcement, we’d like to ask you a few questions,” said Creedy with mechanical proficiency. 

The clerk looked at each of us in turn. “What’s this about?” he asked, blinking tentatively. 

“Do not worry yourself, Mr. Waker,” said Hughes kindly.  “You’ve done nothing wrong. We are simply looking for information about an item of yours.”

The clerk, who was Mr. Waker, relaxed slightly. “What is it, then?”

Creedy spoke again. “You sell Mackled Malaclaws among your inventory?”

Mr. Waker looked surprised but nodded. “Yes, though not very many.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, for one thing, they’re expensive to stock so I can’t import a lot. And for another, they’re not that popular of purchase with customers. I mostly sell them to rich collectors, or else some eccentric foreigner or the like claiming to be researching the effects of the venom. Funny stuff that is, I will grant you.” 

Creedy glanced at Hughes then pressed on. “Do remember selling a Malaclaw to a man named Martin Simmons sometime in the last month?”

The shopkeeper scratched his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell. But, you’re welcome to check my customer registry.” 

“Registry?” Hughes inquired. 

“That’s right. For specialty orders, like a Malaclaw or an octopus, I always have the buyer fill out a form. I keep them all in this.”

He reached behind the counter and pulled up a large binder filled with papers. “You get all sorts in here so I make sure they can pay upfront and have them fill out their residential info in case something goes wrong.”

“Most wise of you,” said Hughes smiling at me out of the corner of his eye. 

“Not to mention helpful,” added Creedy. “This might be just what we need.” 

He opened the enormous binder and flipped through pages, stopping at a section labeled Mackled Malaclaw Customer Index. Together he and Hughes bent over the page to scan the various entries with Creedy’s aide and I leaning over their shoulders to observe. 

“Let’s see here. Dates, dates,” muttered Hughes skimming down the page with his finger. “August, September, October. Ah-ha! Creedy take a look at this one!”

Creedy followed Hughes’ finger to an entry that read as follows: 

-October 6th

Items Purchased – Mackled Malaclaw (1) Marney’s Malaclaw Chow – Sz sml (1)

Total Price – 6 Galleons 15 Sickles 11 Knuts   

Customer Profile – Mr. Fergus Bradford: Room Number 8 - The Leaky Cauldron, London, England. 

“Could that be the one?” I asked, straining to look over Creedy’s shoulder.

“Beyond a doubt,” said Hughes. “Observe that not only is the purchase date set right before the match where the first case of sabotage occurred, but this also is the only Malaclaw purchase that has been made this month.”

“But Mr. Hughes,” said Creedy. “This address can’t be right. It’s just an inn room number. What are the odds he’s actually there?” 

“Ah, I remember now,” said Mr. Waker who too was looking at the entry Hughes was pointing at. “See, I wondered that myself when he made the purchase, but the pub confirmed he was indeed staying there and told me that it was only temporary.”      

“Temporary?” I asked.

“That’s right. Said he had a flat he’d be moving into soon for good.”

“Did he say where?” asked Creedy.

Mr. Waker scratched his head, “Langdon Crest or some such place, I think it was.”

The three of us looked in amazement at Hughes, who smiled gleefully. “Did I not say I had given our man too much credit for discretion?” 

The four of us rushed back through Diagon Alley, passing stores and shoppers who stared curiously as we dashed by. In minutes, the door of the pub was in sight. 

We burst in and made our way briskly up the stairs. Doors flashed by us: five, six, seven. 

We halted at number eight and Creedy knocked firmly on the door. “Mr. Bradford?“ he called. “Open up please.” 

“What?” came a sharp voice from inside. “I’m busy, come back later!”

Creedy nodded to his aide who tapped his wand on the doorknob. The lock clicked open and we all proceeded inside. The room was neat and simply furnished with a bathroom, bed, and dresser. The lamps were lit, but the window was closed and the blinds drawn. Our attention was not focused on any of these things, however, for there standing by the bed was a man we all recognized. He was no longer wearing the uniform of a Chudley Canon medi-wizard and instead was dressed in a simple plaid shirt and a pair of dark grey trousers, but his face and full head of brown curly hair were unmistakable. Upon seeing us, his face went very white and a mix of shock and anger crossed his face.

“No!” 

He yelled and made to snatch up his wand from the bedside table, but before he’d even taken a step, Creedy yelled, “Petrificus Totalus!” 

The full body-bind curse hit him square in the chest and he fell to the ground immobile. 

Creedy’s aide rushed over to the table and picked up the wand lying on it. He then pointed his own wand at our frozen captive and said “Incarcerous.” 

Thick ropes shot out of his wand and wrapped themselves around the prisoner’s body further securing him.

“Mr. Fergus Bradford,” Creedy pronounced, “You’re under arrest for suspicion of murder, the use of an unforgivable curse, and improper usage and possession of potions. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something, which you later rely on in trial. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.” Creedy then turned to us with an exhale of satisfaction. “We’d better get him to the Ministry for questioning. But without your help, Mr. Hughes, I doubt very much we would have found him so soon. You have my thanks.” 

Hughes nodded politely. “If I may, I should like to accompany you back to the Ministry. There are a few points which I would like to confirm from our man himself and I’ll wager Mr. Dorkins will want to be there as well given all that he’s suffered.”

“Of course,” said Creedy. “Should be easy enough to arrange.” 

***

It was well into the evening when Hughes and I rendezvoused with Creedy and Mr. Dorkins at the Ministry of Magic and together were led by a security escort into a small room where Fergus Bradford still bearing the appearance Martin Simmons was being held. 

He said nothing as we entered and stared indifferently down at the floor from the seat to which he was magically bound. 

“We’re expecting him to change back anytime now,” Creedy said to break the silence. 

Mr. Dorkins, who was looking very distraught, nodded to Hughes and myself. “Sergeant Creedy has told me all that’s occurred since the match,” He said somberly. “I still can’t believe most of it.”

“Is Higgs alright?” I asked.

“He will be,” replied the manager. “Nasty crash, but nothing Mary and Donald can’t handle, thank goodness.” 

Just then, there came a rustling sound from the prisoner. “Looks like the potion’s effects are wearing off,” said Creedy. 

They were. The hair shortened and darkened, and the body frame shrunk and became less stocky. Before a minute had passed, a man of about thirty with piercing eyes, pallid skin, and short black hair sat before us. 

Mr. Dorkins gasped in shock. Creedy frowned, but Hughes’ face stayed expressionless.

We stared down at our unmasked captive who looked at each of us in turn with obvious anger.

“Well?” Creedy prompted him at last. 

Fergus Bradford gave him a withering look. “Well, what? I won’t apologize for what’s done,” he snarled contemptuously. “I wasn’t planning to kill Simmons. At least not yet, but you left me with no choice. Higgs though,” Bradford grimaced. “He deserved every injury he got. If I’m to be sorry for anything, it’s that I didn’t kill him sooner.” He fumed silently for a moment. “So, you’re looking for a confession? Heh, why not? I’ve nothing left to lose anyway.” 

He looked down at the floor again for a moment, then began. “I’ve always lived more on the rough side, you might say. Gangs mostly. Fight to survive, you know? For the longest time, I thought that’s how it was going to remain. Then, I met Marcus Higgs.”

“What?” exclaimed Mr. Dorkins. 

“Your seeker has quite the checkered past, Malik,” said Bradford smirking at the manager. “Did you know before he turned to Quidditch, Higgs was a pretty competent thief? I met him by chance when we were both trying to steal from the same place one night. It was an antique shop in Nocturne Alley. I had come for the gold in the register, but he had come for a much more valuable Unicorn statue. Pure Diamond and sapphires all through. And right in the display window! I was certain all was lost when he saw me sneaking around. But instead of reporting me, or even just beating me at my own game, Higgs did something incredible. He said, ‘how’s about we help each other out?’ It opened up a new world to me. I found a new thrill in the act and pleasure from the spoils. I realized how subtle and precise thievery could be. Eventually, you could say I graduated from being Higgs’ student to his partner and we made quite the duo of looters.” 

The slight smile, which had crossed Bradford’s face as he spoke about these seemingly happy memories, now faded away to be replaced by a darker expression. 

“It didn’t last though. Whether he was paranoid about the law or just bored of life, I don’t know, but over time Higgs’ changed his tune and wanted out of it all. Looking back, I doubt he ever meant to be a thief for life, even with his skill. And the only problem was that I was now a loose end. I didn’t realize any of this at the time of course. I would have been fine to keep on like we were forever. But Higgs wanted a fresh start and needed a way to get rid of me without endangering himself.

I had been pushing for us to do bigger heists for a while so one day, he came to me with a proposal. He wanted to break into Gringotts. I told him he was crazy and that it couldn’t be done. But Higgs believed otherwise and he told me his plan. He told me he had a goblin contact in the bank who could help us and that he’d also managed to procure a set of maps of some of the vault tunnels. 

In the end, his confidence and my ignorance left me convinced. We prepared for the heist, but on the day nothing went as planned. I didn’t know it, but the goblin contact, on a tipoff from Higgs, had gone and warned the bank that there would be a robbery attempt that day. 

When we snuck in, they were ready. Higgs, per our plan, had entered the bank separately from me. But, instead of following the heist, he purposefully alerted the staff to my exact whereabouts. Thanks to his goblin contact’s good word he managed to avoid charges, but I was captured. I got six months in Azkaban while Higgs got a public ‘thank you’ from Gringotts and walked away!” Bradford paused again, fresh anger welling up on his face. With a shiver, he went on. 

“Higgs gave me a life beyond the streets, but in the end, I was just a tool for his little life phase. How to make him pay was all I could think about to keep from going insane during my sentence. But, perhaps I’m insane anyway. Not that Higgs expected it. He clearly thought Azkaban would break me and never believed that I would come back for him.” 

Our prisoner laughed bitterly. “Then again why should he? He never understood what it meant to me when we worked together either – or he wouldn’t have had me imprisoned in the first place. Anyway, when I was finally let out, I searched for Higgs and discovered that he was playing as a seeker for the Canons. Some new life. The best he could do was a Quidditch team that never wins. It would have been easy enough to confront him, but I wanted more. I wanted to make him suffer as I had suffered in Azkaban, and from his betrayal. 

Malaclaws are actually pretty common where I’m from. I thought their venom would be perfect for what I wanted to do to Higgs. I could cause him all the misfortune and harm in his new life that I wanted. The madness of constant back luck without knowing why; I knew it would drive him senseless!” 

Bradford’s face twisted into a half-crazed grin. “I figured,” he continued, “I would need to get close to him without him realizing my identity in order to use it. That’s where I got the idea to use Polyjuice Potion. I tracked down the address of one of the Canon’s medi-wizards and broke into his apartment. He fought me, but eventually, I put him under the Imperius curse. I took his wand, clothes, and possessions and used the curse to learn about his life and ways of doing things so I wouldn’t be suspected.”

Mr. Dorkins had become flushed with anger from this account and his fists were clenched. Creedy’s frown was now laden with disgust and Hughes, while still listening intently, bore a cold expression. 

“I kept Simmons in his apartment where I could use his hair for the Polyjuice potion,” Bradford went on. “I also used his apartment to make the potion and to hide the Malaclaw once I’d obtained it. I laced Simmons’ medi-potions with as much venom as I could and began my payback at the very next Canons’ match.” 

Bradford gave another grin. “And it was beyond satisfying. I gave him a full dose of my special mixture and watched the results unfold. Then, I did so again at the next game, and so on. I think you know the rest.”

“Yes,” said Hughes. “At the match today, you first used a confundus charm to make a bludger force Higgs to land. Was it the same the other times?”

“It was. I had to be very careful with the timing so I wouldn’t get caught, but it worked. Until today anyhow.”

“Upon which you fled back to Simmons’ apartment, once you realized the ruse was up, sealed the door with magic, and killed him to cover your tracks before fleeing again to the Leaky Cauldron?”

“That’s right. Anything else?”

“Yes, how did you obtain the necessary ingredients for the potion? They are not easy to acquire, even for legitimate reasons.”

“I have my ways,” Bradford sneered. “Azkaban may have punished me for being a thief, but it didn’t make me forget how to be one. Any more questions?”

“Just one,” said Hughes calmly. “You used Simmons’ wand to cast the confundus charms on the bludgers, but you also kept your own wand on hand - probably in case something like today occurred. Why then did you not use it to cast the charms? It would have been easier and left fewer ties to Simmons, ergo you, as the potential culprit.”

Bradford stared at Hughes for a moment, taken aback. “I didn’t think of that,” he said awkwardly.

Silence fell for a time as the exchange ended. Finally, Creedy glanced at us. “I’ve heard all I need. You?” 

We nodded. A security wizard pulled the door open and the four of us left the room. 

Creedy moved stiffly as we made our way back through the Ministry of Magic to the visitor’s exit. “That was quite a story. Not that it will help him much. He’ll be back in Azkaban soon enough and for life this time. Two unforgivable curses, the nerve of…” his voice trailed off.

Mr. Dorkins was still red with anger. “He deserves it,” he said flatly. “I don’t care about what Higgs has done in the past, it doesn’t warrant this. And Simmons…poor Simmons,” his voice grew tearful.

We reached the main doors and exited beyond into the glow of the nighttime London streets.

Here, Creedy bid us farewell. “Thank you again, Mr. Hughes, for your assistance. I assume you will want some mention in the crediting for this business?”

Hughes shook his head. “No, thank you. You are welcome to it all.” 

With a formal, but appreciative air, Creedy shook hands with each of us and departed back into the Ministry.

Mr. Dorkins turned to us. “Allow me also to express my personal gratitude to you both for helping me with this…unfortunate affair. If there’s ever any way I can repay you, don’t hesitate to ask. You’ve done much for me and my team. Thank you.” 

He smiled solemnly at us and then, with a pop, was gone.

***

It was around eleven-thirty the next morning that Hughes and myself, having returned to our Baker street quarters at last, sat in our two respective armchairs by the fireplace. 

Hughes was idly casting spells on our fire to make it change color and I was reading that day’s edition of the Daily Prophet. 

“Creedy made the headlines,” I said as I perused the paper. “’Quidditch Saboteur no match for Ministry Patrol Sergeant.’ They certainly glorify Creedy to no end, but there’s not one mention of you.”

“It is of no consequence,” said Hughes, flicking his wand and causing our fire to change from lavender to turquoise. “The case is solved, is it not?”

“Yes, but I can’t help but feel that for all you did you have earned at least some mention,” I insisted. 

“Perhaps,” Hughes looked thoughtful. “The Prophet is not my ideal choice for publicity, but should you think of another outlet, you are welcome to give a more thorough account.”

“I shall keep that in mind, ” said I. 

We sat in silence for a moment listening to the fire crackle. Suddenly, I laughed aloud.

“What is it?” asked Hughes.

“Do you recall how Mr. Dorkins told us when he first ordered the Ministry to investigate the cause of Higgs’ injuries that they wrote it off as a case of bad luck? Oddly enough because of the Malaclaw, it really was!”

“Maybe so, but in my experience, luck has always proven to be merely reasons that have yet to be accounted for,” said Hughes.

“I have heard muggles say the same thing about magic.”

Hughes smiled. “It is then my very good fortune not to be one.”

THE END