London in 1989 carried a peculiar rhythm, an air of quiet urgency beneath the veil of its misty streets. The world outside was changing—politics and economics roiled with constant tension—but inside St. Edmund's Public Hospital, the hum of fluorescent lights and the muted shuffle of nurses' shoes created a separate, orderly reality.
The hospital smelled faintly of antiseptic, polished wood, and the lingering musk of old books, and in every corner there was the subtle sound of human vulnerability.
Raven Shafiq adjusted the collar of his white coat, the crisp fabric brushing against his wrists. His final year of internship had brought with it a new weight. Years of careful observation, shadowing senior doctors, and learning the art of discretion had honed him into someone precise, patient, and almost unnervingly calm.
Today, however, he felt a flicker of unease—a faint disturbance in the otherwise routine hum of the hospital.
"Good morning, Mr. Thompson," he said, his voice calm, professional, yet warm enough to put the patient at ease.
"Morning, Doctor," the man replied, his voice tinged with fatigue. He rubbed his hands together nervously and attempted a small, fragile smile. "I… I've been having trouble sleeping again."
Raven nodded and opened his notebook, the pen moving smoothly across the page. "I see. Could you describe what exactly has been keeping you awake?"
"Well… it's not just that I can't sleep," Mr. Thompson began, his shoulders tensing. "I keep thinking about work. Deadlines, clients… all of it. Even when I close my eyes, my mind doesn't rest."
"Stress, then," Raven said gently, jotting a note.
He looked up, his gaze steady and attentive. "Do you experience any other symptoms? Nightmares, anxiety attacks, sudden tension?"
The man nodded. "Yes. And sometimes, I wake up sweating. It's… it's difficult."
Raven leaned back slightly, taking a moment to study him. Years of experience had taught him the subtle art of listening—to hear what was said and what was left unspoken.
"It's quite common, Mr. Thompson. You're overburdened. We'll discuss some techniques to manage your sleep hygiene: relaxation exercises, journaling before bed. Do you have anyone to support you during this time?"
"My wife," he said softly. "She's been… patient."
"Good," Raven said. "Support networks make a remarkable difference." He closed his notebook and offered a reassuring smile.
"We'll make sure you get some rest soon. Stress is manageable. Small adjustments can go a long way."
A faint light returned to Mr. Thompson's expression. "Thank you, Doctor Shafiq. I… I feel a bit better already."
"Take care, Mr. Thompson. I'll see you next week."
The man rose, shuffling out of the room, the echo of his shoes fading into the corridor. Raven exhaled softly, relishing the quiet rhythm of the mundane—a rhythm that he knew would soon be disrupted.
The door creaked open again, and a new presence entered. This time, it was a child, no older than twelve, accompanied by a woman whose expression was taut with concern. The boy's eyes darted nervously around the room, while the woman's gaze was steady, assessing, protective.
"Ah, hello," Raven greeted smoothly, rising from his chair. "And who do we have today?"
"This is my nephew," the woman said, her accent precise and measured.
"He's… been seeing things, Doctor. Strange things. I thought it best he spoke with a professional."
Raven inclined his head toward the boy. "Of course. Why don't you tell me what you've been seeing?"
The boy hesitated, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. "I… I saw people… fighting," he said quietly, almost in a whisper. "With sticks… glowing sticks. They were… moving fast, and one of them shouted words I didn't understand. It… it was terrifying."
Raven's expression remained calm, but his mind raced. He had expected unusual cases in this line of work—nightmares, anxiety, hallucinatory fears—but this was different.
The specificity, the vividness, the intensity—it all pointed to something beyond imagination.
"And these… sticks," Raven asked gently, "were they ordinary objects, or something… unusual?"
The boy's fingers twitched, curling against his sleeves. "Not… ordinary. They glowed… like light. And the people… they weren't just… fighting. They were… different. Like… magic."
Raven's brow furrowed just enough to be natural.
He masked the deeper concern behind a professional smile and produced a small ophthalmoscope. "Let's check your eyesight, shall we? Routine test," he said.
The woman nodded, unaware of the subtle, magical maneuver Raven was preparing. He fixed his gaze on the boy, and in that heartbeat, he did what few could: he reached past the superficial layer of the mind.
Legilimency.
Images flooded his consciousness: flashes of a duel, arcs of brilliant light and energy streaking through a deserted street. A dark wizard, desperate and chaotic, hurled curses with precision; the auror countered, deliberate, controlled, and determined.
The auror's escape left a trail of devastation—overturned carts, scorch marks, the flicker of destroyed streetlights.
Raven observed all of it without a flicker of emotion, though the implications were immediate: magic had been exposed in the muggle world.
He withdrew his gaze, closing the window into the boy's mind as if shutting a door.
His expression returned to that of a concerned, professional doctor. "Everything seems in order physically," he said smoothly.
"Perhaps the visions are… stress-induced. Children sometimes imagine things vividly when under pressure."
The woman's brow creased. "He's… not easily frightened, Doctor. I know the difference between imagination and reality. He's been awake at night, mumbling about what he saw."
Raven nodded gravely. "I understand. Certain events—even in dreams or imagined scenarios—can disturb sleep profoundly. It's quite normal for children exposed to intense stimuli to recount them vividly. Let us focus on helping him relax and ensuring his sleep remains undisturbed."
With calm deliberation, Raven reached under his white coat.
His wand rested there, concealed from the world, and he murmured softly, almost inaudibly, "Obliviate."
A subtle shimmer, imperceptible to human senses, rippled through the room.
The boy blinked, confusion flickering across his face. "I… I don't remember…"
The woman's eyes widened slightly. "Remember what?"
Raven's smile was calm, reassuring, professional. "Ah, it's nothing. Sometimes children have troubling dreams, or misremember events in their sleep. He's had difficulty sleeping lately—that would explain why he mentioned seeing things."
He murmured a second wave of the spell, gentle, precise, ensuring the guardian's memory also faded. Both would leave with the mundane, harmless narrative intact, entirely unaware of the magical exposure they had just brushed against.
The guardian exhaled, a visible weight lifted. "Yes… yes, he has had trouble sleeping these past few days."
"Exactly," Raven said.
"We'll work on that. Perhaps a calming bedtime routine, light reading, reassurance. Nothing to worry about beyond that."
The consultation concluded. Both child and guardian departed the room, their steps echoing faintly along the corridor before fading into the background hum of the hospital. Raven closed the door gently, ensuring the subtle click of the lock sealed away any residual echoes of the magical disturbance.
He sank into his chair, exhaling deeply. The calm of the muggle world contrasted sharply with the chaos he had glimpsed. Here, he was merely a final-year intern; elsewhere, he was a guardian of secrecy, an observer of powers no ordinary human could comprehend.
Reaching for parchment and quill, he began a report to the Ministry. Each word was precise, describing the exposure, the potential danger to the Bureau of Secrecy, and measures required to ensure no further disruption. The writing was neat, deliberate, careful—a document that would allow his superiors to act without causing panic in the muggle world.
Once complete, he rolled the parchment, affixed a seal of black wax embossed with the Ministry crest, and whispered softly into the London sky. Outside, a familiar owl descended gracefully, gripping the letter in its talons before vanishing into the grey haze.
Raven returned to his desk and leaned back, letting the stillness wash over him. The hospital's muted activity—a distant cough, the shuffle of shoes, the hum of fluorescent lights—reminded him that life in this world moved forward, blissfully unaware of the hidden threads that bound it to another.