I've definitely had a plot bunny, bouncing around my head for years, about wizards who experiment with hypnosis. It's the late 1960s, just before Voldemort's rise to power, and young witches and wizards are blurring the lines of what is and is not dark magic. Knockturn Alley is at the heart of this renaissance, and it's become one of the liveliest, most interesting places in the wizarding world.

One incantation that's gaining popularity seems to be unnervingly similar to the Imperius Curse, but people are using it on themselves, to become the people they want to be. Some use it to be happier, others more productive, some want to fall out of a love with a person who has no interest in them, etc. Not everyone has the skills required for casting such complicated magic, however, and so some people start to enlist those more skilled at charms to put them in a trance. There's a group of slightly older wizards who are particularly adept at it. You'd think Tom Riddle would be one of them — that same group of wizards all knew him in school, after all — but no one's heard from him in years.

Over time, it's not so uncommon for young witches and wizards to seem.... a little off. Their loved ones notice it. But the explanations are acceptable — the people who use this magic are more far content, they're progressing through their careers and personal lives in leaps and bounds after floundering for years. Anyone who is unsettled by this new use of this branch of magic is living in the past.

Why have we been so afraid to tap into this kind of magic for so long?

 

This conversation has taken a really interesting (though rather creepy) direction.

This plot bunny is all kinds of alarming, and I love it.

 

Opposite the muggles International Space Station is a little known wizarding space module, where a small lot of the British Ministry's Unspeakables study the effects of the great unknown alongside a handful of the best and brightest of the other magical nations. During their annual inspection, one Harry Potter, designated Head Auror, becomes embroiled in a murder plot as the whole module is sealed from further outside influence by automated safety measures. Harry must conduct an investigation and try to pin down the culprit.

So Potterverse meets Among Us, I guess, though I had this idea a year or two back looking through my writing.

 

It was a usual night in Bob’s pub, with only a couple of strangers quietly drinking their pints in the corner of the room, and a few more at the bar, watching the game. Bob wasn't much for football but he guessed it was an old match, judging by the lack of reaction when yet another goal was scored.

He took great pride in his pub and its discretion. Here, at Bob’s, everyone was welcome and no one judged. Bob imagined it as a safe haven for tired folks who wanted to escape a rashness of reality for a few hours

On a night like this, he would usually go about his business, and would not bat an eye on any talks, discussions going on around him as long as they don’t end up in bursts of violence. Those, to be honest, rarely happened.

However, he couldn’t help but keep glancing at the lone man, leaning on the darkest part of the bar, and disinterestedly watching the remains of his pint, as he slowly motioned his mug in circles. He wore a strange kind of coat, a bit too long at the ends, and a bit too loose around the middle, black as night and high quality, with its hood hanging at a stranger's back.

Bob was wary to approach him, but curiosity made better of him, as he had seen such coats in his past. In reality, he had a whole room, in the back, where he had dozens of photos and notes about all sorts of freakish accidents and strange sightings. What is more, those things were usually connected with strange folk wearing exactly the same sort of coats.

“Alright?” Bob grunted in his usual barman voice. “Another one?”

Stranger, a much younger fellow than Bob expected, raised his head, his eyes wide as if he was surprised someone actually talked to him. The corner of his mouth tightened, but whether in good humor or disgust, Bob couldn’t tell.

“Please,” he said, not rude, but not like he honestly meant it either. Now that Bob established eye contact, he wished he hadn’t. Green eyes, both shiny and tired, watched him carefully, as an unnatural hint of red crept around his irises. “Would you then?” Stranger chided Bob.

“Gotcha,” Bob said and hurried to get another pint, shaking his head on the way, willing the thoughts away. Perhaps it would be better to just let it go, but Bob had a very good feeling about this man and his connection with the content of his room in the back.

“Here you go, mate,” Bob said when he got back, and the stranger took his drink without another word, but Bob pressed on, “So what brings you here?”

“The usual,” he replied, and this time Bob was sure that there was some humor behind it, even if his lips were a straight line.

“Right,” Bob said. “Just haven’t seen you ‘round before, you know?”

“Expectable.” The stranger nodded and emptied half of the mug in a long gulp. “I’m rarely sent to these parts.”

“So it’s business?” Bob asked and raised his eyebrows. “What do you do?”

“You could say I’m chief executive,” he said, and grinned, showing his teeth, but Bob thought it wasn't a particularly happy expression, if at all.

Bob ignored the weird wording and asked, “You? A CEO? I’d never say.”

“I’m no officer,” he said, and chuckled, “but I do a fair share of bossing and executing.”

Bob stopped pretending to wipe the bar, and slowly raised his head, and two of them locked their eyes. Bob immediately saw some sort of shift in his eyes and knew that all of the pretenses were gone. They both knew. Bob let out the breath he didn’t even know was holding and looked around the pub, half a dozen folk still there. He was just about to go on the other side of the bar when a stranger spoke again.

“Hold on, now,” he said and tilted his head to the side, “haven’t you got more questions for me?”

“None,” Bob let out and winced when he heard how weak his voice sounded. “None at all,” he repeated, steadying his voice.

“Oh, but I do,” the stranger said softly. He cleared his throat and said a single word, a word that left Bob breathless. “Out!”

And indeed, Bob’s last line of protection, his guests, left one by one, not looking at him and saying no words. He was just about to start running towards the back door himself, but an invisible force stopped him right where he stood.

“Easy now, Bob. You’ve got something to show me, don’t you?”

Bob had plenty of words to say to the man, but none of them left his throat as his legs started to lead his body towards the biggest secret in his life. How could this be?

“You’re about to find out all the answers you’ve been after,” the man said as they entered the room. “Sit down.”

Bob sat down.

The man walked around the room, stopping here and there to get a closer look at some of his notes and photos, his arms folded behind his back and an elaborate, pale stick resting in his right hand.

“Why are you doing this?” Bob managed to find his voice.

“Because, Bob,” he said, leaning towards the blurry photo of a man in a similar coat that the stranger himself was wearing, “someone chose a wrong hobby.”

Bob didn’t like the sound of it. Not at all. His heart was pounding and there was a hint of sweat forming on his forehead, but his body was still unresponsive.

“What did you do to me?” he tried again.

“Proved my superiority,” the stranger said in a mocking voice, “so that even your worthless mind can understand.”

“Understand what?” Bob asked, his voice getting louder and higher. Higher than he would prefer.

“A natural order of things.” The man turned to face him at last. “Even your species, once it came to be, erased all previous ones. Lesser ones.”

Bob had no idea what this lunatic was talking about and tried to struggle, but without something to struggle against, it was futile. Still, he tried, and the man chuckled.

“The thing I do appreciate about your kind is your stubbornness. Your utter aversion to death,” he continued, “but it won’t do you any good in the face of what’s coming.”

Stranger stiffed and looked at the ceiling as if he expected something would fall right through it and sniffed. “They are close,” he said.

“Who is?” Bob asked, unable to conceal the sound of hope in his voice.

The man waved his stick, and the greenish, unnatural fire started to spread through the room from the tip of it. It dispersed in a flock of bird-like embers, each of them heading in a different direction and starting to set his photos on fire. Bob knew that if he could, he would be gaping like an idiot, but as it was, all he could do was to widen his eyes so much they threatened to fall out of their sockets.

“Optimists and fools,” he finally responded. Not that it meant much to Bob. “I can almost taste your awe, muggle.” He waved his stick again, and all remains of Bob’s collection and the smoke that was left behind vanished without a sound.

“Awe, and fear,” he continued, “for your kind always feared what they could not understand.” He leaned forward until his face was only inches away from Bob’s own. The hate and intensity in his green and red eyes made Bob shudder, even though his body stood still, and he said, all pride gone, “Please.”

Stranger straightened himself again. “Please?” he asked softly. “No. Your time is over. The only thing you can beg for is for my mercy.”

“M-mercy?” Bob managed to say.

“Yes. Mercy.” Man’s mouth twitched, and his features turned into something cruel, inhuman. “Beg for it, and I’ll make your end painless. It would be like falling asleep.”

Bob tried to open his mouth when sudden tears started to drip from his eyes. He didn’t want to die.

“Few men have the chance to choose when and how to go on,” the pale man said, and Bob had the feeling that the man somehow read his mind. “Speak, Bob. Time is short.”

Bob met his eyes one more time, and all he could see there was his death. The moment crushed on his chest with the weight of hundreds of wagons, and he felt his mouth moving on its own, “Please.”

The man smiled, raising his stick and pointing it at Bob.

“As you wish,” he said, a cruel little grin on his thin lips. Bob could see man’s knuckles whitening as he gripped his stick firmer. He tried to open his mouth again, but a strange feeling overcame him as the light that escaped the tip of the stick hit him in the chest.

His eyes grew heavy, and his breath was ragged and short. Bob blinked, and once he opened his eyes there was only him in the room.

Well, better this way, he thought and approached his desk, frowning at his knees that were weak for some reason. No matter, though, they ain't gonna work for another day.

The gun was where he left it, in the top drawer and he pulled it out. When he bought it, he prayed he'd never have to use it. The thought made him chuckle as he pressed it against the temple.

You need to write a letter, fool, the small voice in his head said. Oh, right.

He fished the pen and a bit of paper out of his pocket. But write what? And to whom?

In the end, he settled for, I'm not worthy, sorry, and once done he frowned at it. It didn't make much sense. He looked around the room. It looked different. Emptier. It was supposed to be important to him, and, and-

His eyes widened as his gun hand started raising again. No, no, no... He grabbed the pen, the single movement making him more tired than ever, and he started scribbling. Over paper. Over desk. Wherever he could.

The green fire took it all, my collection.

Freaks in long coats - sticks.

They call us mugg...

The loud bang interrupted him, and Bob knew no more.

***

I've wanted to continue this for years so I'm gonna post it here, hoping for extra inspiration. This would be sort of prologue, or for me to know what happened. The actual story is two POVs - muggles and Aurors investigating this what obviously leads them down the different rabbit hole which I guess ends at the same place. Few open-minded muggles, seeing things that don't make sense, and through sheer stubbornness, discovering a whole new world. Aurors with no leads stumbling into a far larger conspiracy that makes them realize just how far certain someones are willing to go in order to protect the Statute of Secrecy.

I don't really have it all figured out, but I really like the idea about two different forces stumbling around each other and maybe even working together down the road in order to get to the bottom of the things none really understand. The draft is a bit rough since I didn't edit it, like, ever.

 

Nice writing, but I'm a little confused by the end - is he AK'd? Or is he obliviated and imperius'd to kill himself? Or is it intentionally ambiguous to the reader what has happened? Does it relate to the authorities drawing close?

 

I think the idea was Imperiused, but he managed to struggle a bit against it, long enough to write those couple of lines. That bang is where he blew his head off. It's all a bit ambiguous so the scene that should've come next (some sort of muggle detective investigating) isn't just the repeating of what was said, but slowly filling the holes.

Yeah, those people drawing close, I have no idea who were they supposed to be (notes don't say, unfortunately) so I guess I should polish that part a bit to make at least some kind of sense. Knowing myself, my guess would be that there's supposed to be two different groups chasing each other outside of the law, and then the plot - authorities getting involved.