August 1st, 1893 — Rural Nova Scotia, Canada

There were, he had been repeatedly assured, no wolves in this town, for all that it was called Wolfville. Town was, perhaps, generous, for all that it boasted a (very small) harbour, but apparently the magical denizens dwelling just outside of the community had developed a new broom sport that they wished to demonstrate—to his local counterpart, not Fitzroy in particular, but he was along for the ride.

Shame. Wolves might have livened the place up.

The demonstration had gone... surprisingly intriguingly. The game involved not a traditional broomstick, but two smaller ones with platforms affixed for standing. The game itself was, it was explained to him, was similar to muggle ice hockey which he knew existed but did not understand in the slightest, so that explanation afforded no illumination. In action, though—Fitz doubted very much the game would fly back in England, but it had been far more entertaining to watch than he had anticipated.

And yet, grown wizards trying to balance standing on broomsticks while hitting what amounted to a small bludger to one another was not the strangest thing Fitz had seen today.

No, that honour belonged to one of the locals who had turned out to watch as well.

He was older, of course, and sported a moustache, but Fitz could have sworn it was him—a face he had sat across the dinner table from many times, had shared a quidditch box, a bottle of brandy, numerous conversations with. A man who was supposed to be dead.

Their eyes met, and Fitz opened his mouth, the name Gallivan on his lips.

Then the man disapparated. 

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August 4th, 1893 — Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada

If Gambol thought it odd that Fitzroy had asked for a recommendation for a private detective, he did not say anything about it, just as Fitz had not commented when the other man had drawn the business card out straight away and handed it to him. He had provided the detective, a man named Tambor (allegedly quarter-veela, but Fitz, being in possession of at least one testicle, could not attest to that), with all the information he had on the Maybe-Gallivan he had seen; there was little else the wizard could do but to finish up his business in Canada so that he might return home.

Curiosity had never been his vice of choice, but Fitz could not help but be distracted by what he had seen—and question if, indeed, he had seen it. After all, Nathaniel Gallivan was dead, had been for years. And the Nathaniel Gallivan he had known? Not a man to disappear, to abandon his family.

Tambor would surely tell Fitz he had been seeing things, and then the matter could be dropped altogether. A silly mistake, if a possessing one, and nothing more.

  

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August 16th, 1893 — Ottawa, Ontario, Canada

Tambor had worked quickly, Fitz thought, reading over the first report from the detective he had hired. Evidently, George Middleton had been living in the area Fitz had seen him since 1889. He lived alone the the woods on a mountain, and generally kept himself, though was known to the local magical community. He apparently had no occupation, but was not impoverished, a peculiar combination.

Fitz could not help but feel as though he knew no more than before; it was not the resounding discrediting of his sight that he had hoped for.

He wrote a reply to Tambor, engaging his efforts for another fortnight.

  

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