AN: This was based off a roleplay. The plot of the mystery does belong to me; however, it was the initial setup that gave me the idea, although the character's name and personality, to some degree, have been changed. If this person knows who they are and contacts me, they will be credited for their input. Otherwise, enjoy!

The left side of the left double door swung freely in the breeze. It had never quite locked, despite being repaired numerous times. Every morning Gerard would curse at it, kneel, the thick floorboards jabbing between his bones, and point his wand at it, muttering spell after spell until it was mended – and yet, by early evening, the hinges would have snapped once more, the door would angle itself, hanging on by a few splinters of wood, and the howling winds of Diagon Alley would sweep through the tiny room, over the dusty shelves of thin, frayed paperbacks, over the slick feathers of the single quill resting in an ink jar on the rickety desk, and over the faded navy lettering that read "G. H. Hornwell, private detective". At least, the sign above the Muggle entrance, leading into Muggle London, was written in navy. The sign above the magical entrance was a darker color and the letters changed fonts every couple of hours. Kept things interesting.

Gerard Hornwell had wanted to be a detective for as long as he could remember. He sneered at his mother's crossword puzzles, over her words that spilled and danced through the fibers of her knitting, because they didn't come together. They were just words – words without a collective meaning. Books, now, he relished in books. He could sit in the corner of the sunlit boudoir, flipping the pages and fighting against the breeze for the right to turn them. He found meaning in every glance, in every word, in every half-chewed lip. Kids would call him "Blinded G" because of his glasses. But Blinded G was never blind – not to the world he lived in. Every muffled footstep, every chip in a fence seemed to call his name. Read me, they begged. Discover me. Collect my story and carry it in your head like a dusk-bathed flower in a basket.

Thirty years later, and Blinded G – or what he was now called, Detective Hornwell – sat in a tiny room. One desk, one bookshelf across from it, and one door to each side – Muggle and Magical - and one bell to each door. Admittedly, he should have been much more famous than he was. After all, he had never lost a case.

Of course, he'd only had two so far, but that wasn't the important part.

He had wanted marble flooring, velvet chairs and newspaper clippings in three-Galleon frames, but now that he had what he had, he was happy. It was the stories that got to him. The two stories that he'd gotten to witness. Although petty crimes – one a stolen bike, the other quickly resolved as a case of mistaken identity – the characters still walked his room when he closed his eyes. The boisterous boy who had jammed his hand into every drawer, the middle-aged red-headed man with a couple of Sickles in his pocket, the swollen eye and lanky limbs of the teenage bike thief. It was Hornwell's sacred collection of souls, and he wouldn't trade them in for the world.

Just then, the world rang the Diagon Alley bell.

Hornwell sat down and rubbed his hands. Magical crime was always more interesting. The door opened as a woman stepped in. She seemed about fifty, although the energy in her step placed her age rather at thirty-five. Her dress was of an expensive, but beaten fabric. It was soiled and soggy near the bottom, ripped and torn at the sleeves, and the collar line clumsily mended. Hornwell stood up. The woman looked like she had slept in the gutter – but she stood tall, her head held high, and her blue eyes surveyed the room, agonizingly slowly.

"Are you Detective Hornwell?" She asked scornfully.

"That's me."

"And this is… temporary, I assume?"

"Not exactly, miss, see – "

Her sigh cut him off. Her eye twitched, a hidden battle between disgust and desperation raging within.

"You'll have to do." She helped herself to a chair, sweeping a candle from a shelf to give her somewhere to rest her hand, pale and elegant.

"You've got to help me," She suddenly burst out, breaking through her film of regality. "You've got to help me, you've got to find them."

"May I ask your name?" Hornwell threw over his shoulder, pulling a notebook from a shelf. He felt a presence behind him, and then an icy grip on his shoulder. A hissed whisper in his ear. "My name is Calypso," The woman whispered. "My last name is of little consequence, other than the notion that it was once one of the richest wizarding families of Scotland. And if you value your life, Detective Hornwell, you will take notes with nothing but your ears."

He turned and she was sitting back in the chair, the very image of broken, worn-down pride.

"My husband," She said. "He's dead. He died."

Hornwell froze. A murder. This was a whole different game. It was an adventure his heart yearned to grasp. "Lead me to the crime scene, Miss Calypso," He babbled eagerly.

"My husband, Detective Hornwell, died four years ago. And the sky is darkening every minute. I may come home and my daughter will be dead. My Seline will be dead." She raised her head and her eyes, proud and mighty, brimmed with tears.

"Please, Detective Hornwell." She emptied five Galleons onto the table.

He slid the money into a pouch and then leaned over to her. "Calm down, madam. Calm down and tell me everything."

AN: Please review! This will be my first fanfic in this style as opposed to cut-off sequences of action, as well as my first long multi-character fanfiction. This will develop into a full murder mystery and I hope you all enjoy it. Thank you for everyone's support! ~JT