A sense of foreboding had clung to him like burrs from the moment Julius Scrimgeour had woken that mourning, as though something dangerous lurked just around the corner. As an auror, and even as an investigator, this was the sort of sensation to which the wizard listened, those gut feelings that seemed to have very little basis on evidence but could mean the difference between life and death.

And each choice he made, Julius could not help but feel that it was the right one, as though listening to this soft, indescernable voice in the back of his head was making a difference. The last minute luncheon change to a tray in his study, instead of sitting down in the dining room, had kept him from it when a storm had formed inside, briefly trapping the footman. Julius could only imagine what might have happened if he had been there himself. Araminta, too, had seemed to have a bit of nervous energy about her all day, frequently checking upon him like a worried mother hen. It was endearing, but did nothing to ease his own nagging worries.

But after a time, the day ended, as they so often do. The dining room windows had been magically borded over until a glazier could come and repair them—hopefully sooner, rather than later—and the wizard sipped leisurely at a small, crystal glass of whiskey, a relaxing end to a peculiar, but not catastrophic day. His glass empty, Julius snuffed out the lights and went to bed.

He could not help but feel as though he had forgotten something important.