The gates of Greengrass Manor loomed before Harry, ornate wrought iron twisted into an elegant pattern of vines and flowers that belied their true purpose—a first line of magical defense. He could feel the wards humming, assessing him as he stood waiting. The estate sprawled behind the gates, a grand Georgian structure of pale stone set amid gardens too perfect to be maintained by anything but magic. Tall hedges and strategically placed willow trees ensured privacy from prying Muggle eyes.
Harry patted the pocket that contained the shrunken files from Belby's office. The evening air carried the scent of night-blooming jasmine, pleasant but feeling as though even the garden's fragrance had been calibrated for optimal impression.
A soft pop announced Daphne's arrival. She'd apparated just inside the gates, and Harry noted the immediate transformation in her demeanor. Gone was the practical healer from St. Mungo's, replaced by a woman who carried herself with the ingrained poise her upbringing demanded. Her robes were simple but clearly expensive, in a deep navy that complemented her blonde hair, which was now arranged in an elegant twist.
"Potter," she greeted with a slight nod. "Punctual, I see."
"Greengrass," he returned with a nod, noticing how easily she'd changed her demeanor in this setting. "Impressive place."
She tapped her wand against a specific iron vine, causing the gates to swing inward silently. "It's been in the family for seven generations. My father is rather proud of maintaining its... historical integrity."
As they passed through the gates, Harry felt the wards ripple around him—acknowledging him as an approved visitor but maintaining vigilance. He wondered briefly what would happen to an uninvited guest who attempted to force entry. Knowing pureblood families and their protective enchantments, it wouldn't be pleasant.
"The gardens change with the seasons," Daphne commented as they walked up the gravel path that crunched satisfyingly beneath their feet. "My mother designed them to reflect classical magical principles—balance, harmony, the cyclical nature of power."
Harry glanced at the immaculate flowerbeds where blossoms seemed to glow with an inner light in the deepening dusk. "I'm guessing she doesn't do the weeding herself."
A hint of amusement crossed Daphne's face. "Our house-elves tend to the grounds, but Mother oversees every aspect of their work. She was quite the prodigy in Herbology during her Hogwarts days, though few people know that about her now."
Harry took note of magical signatures woven into the property's defenses as they proceeded. The wards were sophisticated but subtle—designed not to advertise their strength but to exert it efficiently if needed. He recognized elements of ancient Celtic protective magic blended seamlessly with more modern security enchantments.
"Your family maintained neutrality during both wars," Harry said, making it sound like casual conversation though they both knew it wasn't. He watched her reaction carefully, looking for tells that might reveal more than her words.
Daphne's pace didn't falter, but he detected a slight stiffening in her shoulders. "We did. A position that was neither popular with your side nor with those who followed Voldemort."
Harry noted her use of Voldemort's name—uncommon among former Slytherins, many of whom still referred to him as "the Dark Lord" or used euphemisms.
"Must have been a difficult line to walk."
"Every family made choices, Potter," she said, a hint of defensiveness creeping into her voice. The gravel crunched more loudly beneath her feet as she momentarily increased her pace. "Some chose to fight. Some chose to flee. We chose to endure."
"Endurance isn't the same as inaction," Harry observed, matching her stride. "Maintaining true neutrality during a war like that would have required... careful maneuvering."
Daphne cast him a sidelong glance, her blue eyes sharp in the fading light. "Is this an official interrogation, Auror Potter? I thought we were here to investigate those murders, not my family's wartime politics."
"Just establishing context," Harry replied mildly. "The past has a way of influencing the present."
"Indeed it does," she said, her tone cool. "And some people have a harder time leaving it behind than others."
Harry recognized the subtle rebuke but chose not to respond directly. Instead, he focused on their surroundings as they approached the house.
They reached the wide stone steps leading to the manor's entrance. Twin marble unicorns flanked the doorway, their eyes seeming to track Harry's movement as he passed. The door opened before Daphne could touch it, revealing a small, well-dressed house-elf.
"Miss Daphne," the elf said with a deep bow. "Master and Mistress are in the blue salon awaiting your guest."
"Thank you, Pippy," Daphne replied, her tone gentler than it had been with Harry. "We'll join them shortly."
Harry had learned enough about house-elf treatment over the years to make quick assessments. Pippy appeared well-cared for—her uniform clean and properly sized, her manner respectful but not fearful. He noted with approval that Daphne had addressed her by name and spoken kindly. While not quite reaching Hermione's standards for house-elf liberation, it was better than the treatment he'd witnessed in many pureblood households.
The entrance hall was impressively proportioned, with a sweeping staircase and walls adorned with magical landscapes that shifted subtly as they passed. Harry noticed there were no family portraits displayed—unusual for a pureblood home.
"My parents prefer privacy," Daphne said, noticing his glance. "Family portraits have a tendency to gossip."
"Speaking from experience?" Harry asked, remembering the insufferable portrait of Sirius's mother at Grimmauld Place.
"Let's just say my great-great-grandmother had very strong opinions about what constituted proper behavior for young ladies," Daphne replied dryly. "Her portrait now resides in the attic, where she can share her views with the ghoul."
She led him through a corridor lined with glass cases containing what appeared to be ancient magical artifacts—small bronze instruments, weathered grimoires under preservation spells, and several ornate wands displayed on velvet cushions.
"Family heirlooms," she explained. "Each with its own story of some Greengrass ancestor's accomplishment or adventure."
"No cursed necklaces or poisoned goblets?" Harry asked, only half-joking.
To his surprise, Daphne's lips curved in a small smile. "Those are kept in the west wing, Potter. We don't display the truly interesting items where just anyone might see them."
Before Harry could determine if she was serious, they arrived at a set of double doors that swung open at their approach. The blue salon was aptly named—decorated in varying shades of blue and silver, with tall windows overlooking the rear gardens. A fire burned in a white marble fireplace despite the mild spring evening.
Two people rose as they entered. Cyrus Greengrass was tall and distinguished, with the same blonde hair as his daughter now streaked with silver at the temples. His face was composed in a mask of perfect civility that revealed nothing of his thoughts. Beside him, Elizabeth Greengrass was still strikingly beautiful, her posture impeccable, her expression similarly controlled.
"Mr. Potter," Cyrus stepped forward, extending his hand. "Welcome to our home."
Harry shook the offered hand, noting the firm grip. "Thank you for having me, Mr. Greengrass."
"My daughter indicates you're here on official Ministry business," Elizabeth said, not offering her hand but inclining her head slightly. "Something urgent enough to require an evening visit."
Harry detected the unspoken question—and the subtle concern beneath it. The Greengrasses had worked hard to maintain their neutral status; an Auror's presence in their home was unwelcome attention, regardless of the circumstances.
"Mother, Father," Daphne interjected smoothly, moving to stand beside Harry, "Harry and I will be working in the library. There's no need for you to adjust your evening plans."
Harry caught the subtle dynamics at play—Daphne using his first name deliberately, establishing their working relationship as equals while simultaneously providing her parents an exit strategy. She was skilled at social navigation, he realized, having likely been trained in such maneuvers since childhood.
"Of course," Cyrus nodded. "Your mother and I have correspondence to attend to. The library is at your disposal."
"Pippy will bring refreshments shortly," Elizabeth added, her gaze moving between her daughter and Harry with careful assessment. "Unless there's something specific you require?"
"That won't be necessary, Mother," Daphne replied with practiced ease. "We likely won't be here long."
"One moment, before you go," Harry said, causing all three Greengrasses to turn to him with identical expressions of controlled surprise. "I understand your family temporarily hosted a child from the Halcyon House program."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Elizabeth's hand moved to touch a pendant at her throat, while Cyrus's expression hardened imperceptibly.
"We participated in several Ministry rehabilitation initiatives after the war," Cyrus stated carefully. "As neutral parties, we were considered suitable temporary guardians for certain... displaced children."
Harry noted the deliberate vagueness—'several initiatives,' 'certain children'—language designed to acknowledge without specifying, to cooperate without revealing.
"The boy's name was Cillian," he prompted, watching their reactions closely.
"Cillian Rosier," Elizabeth confirmed, her voice soft but clear. "A distant relation of the Rosier family, though he himself was merely a child who had suffered greatly. We provided him sanctuary for three months."
"And then?" Harry pressed.
"And then the Ministry relocated him," Cyrus said flatly. "We were not informed of his subsequent placement. Now, if you'll excuse us—"
"Of course," Harry nodded, recognizing the conversation was over for now. Further pushing would only make them defensive, and he'd rather have their cooperation. "Thank you for your hospitality."
With polite nods, the elder Greengrasses departed, leaving Harry alone with Daphne.
"That went well," he commented dryly.
Daphne sighed , her formal posture relaxing slightly now that they were alone. She moved to one of the blue velvet chairs by the fire, gesturing for Harry to join her. "My parents are... private people. The war years were difficult for everyone, Potter. Even those who tried to remain uninvolved."
"Were they? Uninvolved?" Harry asked directly, taking the seat opposite her.
Her blue eyes met his green ones unflinchingly. "In the ways that mattered to the Ministry? Yes. No Dark Marks, no financial support for Death Eaters, no active participation in either side's activities. But if you're asking if they truly didn't care who won..." She paused. "Few people are ever truly neutral in their hearts, Potter. Only in their actions."
"And what about you?" Harry asked, leaning forward slightly. "Were you neutral in your heart as well as your actions?"
The question was more personal than their professional relationship warranted, yet it was essential to the trust Harry needed to establish. Daphne held his gaze for a long moment, her expression contemplative.
"I was at Hogwarts during the final year, when the Carrows controlled the school," she said finally. "You weren't there. You didn't see what it was like."
"I've heard," Harry said quietly, thinking of Neville's accounts of that terrible year.
"Hearing isn't the same as experiencing," Daphne countered, her voice taking on an edge. "Being a Slytherin during that time meant constant pressure to participate in their twisted version of education. To cast Cruciatus curses on first-years in detention. To report 'disloyal' conversations." Her fingers gripped the armrests of her chair. "Many of my housemates embraced it. Others found excuses not to participate directly. I specialized in healing spells that year—offering to take injured students to the hospital wing before the damage became too severe."
"You protected them," Harry realized, seeing her in a new light.
"I did what little I could without drawing attention," she corrected. "It wasn't heroic, Potter. It was... survival with a conscience. The bare minimum of decency."
"Sometimes that's all it takes," Harry said. "Small acts of resistance add up."
Before Harry could respond, the door opened again and a younger woman entered—similar enough to Daphne to clearly be her sister, though slighter in build and with a warmer demeanor.
"I thought I heard voices," she said, her eyes lighting up with interest as they landed on Harry. "You must be the famous Harry Potter."
"This is my sister, Astoria," Daphne introduced them. "Astoria, please don't pester him with unnecessary questions."
Astoria laughed, a light sound that seemed to brighten the formal room. "I wouldn't dream of pestering an Auror. I just wanted to meet the man who's managed to drag my sister away from her patients. A rare accomplishment."
Harry shook Astoria's offered hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Miss Greengrass."
"Please, call me Astoria," she replied easily. "We've never been much for formality in private, have we, Daph?" She glanced at her sister with affection tinged with gentle teasing. "At least, I haven't. My sister maintains her decorum even in her sleep, I suspect."
"Astoria," Daphne's voice held a warning, though Harry detected underlying fondness beneath her stern tone. "We are working on a rather urgent matter."
"So I gathered," Astoria said, her expression becoming more serious as she turned to Daphne. "This is about Cillian, isn't it? I saw Mother's face when she came upstairs."
"Partially," Daphne acknowledged. "Harry and I need to use the library."
"Of course," Astoria nodded. "I won't keep you. But Daph—" She hesitated, glancing at Harry before continuing more softly, "Be careful how deeply you dig. Some things were buried for good reasons."
With a final smile that didn't quite reach her eyes this time, Astoria departed, leaving a contemplative silence in her wake.
"Your sister seems fond of Cillian," Harry observed as Daphne led him from the blue salon.
"Astoria has always had a soft heart," Daphne replied. "She was fifteen when Cillian stayed with us—just after her fifth year at Hogwarts. She spent hours playing Exploding Snap with him, trying to make him laugh."
"And did he? Laugh?"
Daphne's expression softened with the memory. "Rarely. But when he did..." She shook her head slightly. "The library is this way."
They walked through another corridor, this one lined with landscape paintings depicting what Harry recognized as the grounds of the manor through different seasons. The figures in the paintings were small and distant, faceless observers of the changing scenery.
"Here we are," Daphne said, stopping before a set of heavy oak doors inlaid with silver runes. She placed her palm against a specific pattern, and the doors swung open silently.
The Greengrass library was impressive—two stories tall with a gallery running around the upper level. Shelves of dark wood lined the walls, filled with books ranging from ancient tomes to modern magical texts. A massive fireplace dominated one wall, with comfortable leather chairs arranged before it. Several reading tables occupied the center of the room, equipped with enchanted lamps that provided perfect reading light.
"This puts Grimmauld Place's library to shame," Harry admitted, taking in the collection. Despite inheriting the Black family home and its contents, he'd never fully restored its library, which had suffered from both neglect and Sirius's mother's tendency to destroy books she deemed unworthy of the family's legacy.
"The Greengrass family has always valued knowledge," Daphne said, moving to a reading table where several books were already laid out. "Sometimes more than they valued action."
There was a note of something in her voice—not quite bitterness, but a complexity Harry hadn't expected.
"You don't agree with your family's neutrality during the war," he said, realizing it as he spoke.
Daphne stilled, her back to him as she stood by the table. For a moment, he thought she might ignore the comment, but then her shoulders relaxed marginally.
"What I think doesn't matter much now, does it?" she said quietly. "The war is over. We all lived with the choices we made—or didn't make."
"It still bothers you, though," Harry pressed, not entirely sure why it mattered to him, but he felt understanding her perspective was somehow important for the investigation. Trust couldn't be one-sided, especially in a case as complex as this one.
She turned to face him, her composure intact but her eyes revealing more than she perhaps intended. "Do you want to know the truth, Potter? I was ashamed. When I heard about the Battle of Hogwarts, when I learned who had fought and who had died, I was ashamed that I hadn't been there. That my family had chosen safety while others sacrificed everything." Her voice remained steady, but her hands betrayed her emotion, clasping together tightly. "I had left Hogwarts by then—was already in preliminary Healer training at St. Mungo's. I treated casualties from both sides. Saw the aftermath of what He... what Voldemort and his followers did."
"But?" Harry prompted, sensing there was more.
"But I also understood," she continued, her voice steadier now. "My parents had two daughters they were desperate to protect. My mother's brother had died in the first war—killed not by Death Eaters or by the Order, but simply for being in the wrong place when a magical battle broke out. Neutrality seemed the only way to ensure their daughters would survive."
She met his gaze directly now, a challenge in her eyes. "Not everyone is built for heroism, Potter. Some of us just tried to cause as little harm as possible while preserving what mattered most to us."
Harry moved closer, leaning against the reading table. "I think I can understand that. Not everyone is built for fighting."
"Is that what you tell yourself?" she asked, a hint of challenge in her voice. "That those who didn't join your side were simply cowards?"
"No," Harry said firmly. "That's not what I meant. I meant that war forces impossible choices on people. I never expected everyone to fight my battles."
"Didn't you, though?" Daphne pressed, taking a step toward him. "The Boy Who Lived, leading the charge against the Dark Lord while the rest of us scurried for cover? There was judgment in your eyes at school, Potter. Don't pretend there wasn't."
"I was seventeen," Harry countered, feeling an old defensive anger rise. "Barely an adult, carrying expectations no teenager should have to bear. Yes, I judged people—especially Slytherins. I was wrong about many things."
"Yet here you are," she said, gesturing around the library, "still suspicious of my family's motives, still probing for where our loyalties truly lay."
Harry felt a flare of irritation. "I didn't ask for any of it. I didn't want to be the chosen one or the savior or whatever other ridiculous title the Prophet came up with. I just wanted to live, and Voldemort made that impossible without fighting back."
They stared at each other for a tense moment before Daphne's expression softened slightly.
"I apologize," she said, surprising him. "That was unfair. I know you didn't choose your role."
Harry shook his head. "No, you have a point. I did judge people based on which side they took. I still do, sometimes. But I've learned that courage takes different forms."
"Such as?"
"Such as a Slytherin healer who specializes in helping people recover from war trauma," he said with a small smile. "Even when it leads her into dangerous investigations."
"Even when it means working with a Gryffindor who rushes in without careful planning?" she countered, but her tone was lighter, the set of her shoulders less rigid.
"I plan," Harry protested mildly. "Sometimes on the way there, but I do plan."
Daphne's lips curved slightly in acknowledgment. "Well, this particular healer would like to get to work before we waste the entire evening on philosophical debates about past choices."
"Agreed," Harry said, pulling out the shrunken files from his satchel and restoring them to their original size with a tap of his wand. "Let's start with what we know about Cillian Rosier."
As the files expanded to their normal dimensions, he added, "For what it's worth, I think you did what you could during that year at Hogwarts. Healing the injured, getting them out of harm's way—that mattered. Sometimes survival itself is resistance."
Daphne paused in her movements, a flash of genuine surprise crossing her features before she composed herself again. "Thank you," she said simply.
She moved to a cabinet near the fireplace, withdrawing a thin folder. "I've kept my own notes about him. Not much—just observations from when I was home from Healer training."
She returned to the table, opening the folder to reveal neat handwriting on several sheets of parchment. "Cillian arrived here in August 1998, three months after the Battle of Hogwarts. He was ten years old, severely traumatized, barely spoke. The Ministry provided little background—only that his parents had been killed during the final months of the war and that he'd been exposed to 'magical trauma.'"
"No specifics about what kind of trauma?" Harry asked, scanning the first page of notes.
"None," Daphne confirmed. "But his behavior provided clues. He had nightmares almost nightly—vivid ones that would cause accidental magic. Once, he shattered every window in the east wing during a particularly bad episode."
Harry nodded, all too familiar with how trauma could manifest in magical children. "Physical symptoms?"
"Unexplained scars on his arms," Daphne said, turning a page to reveal a sketch. "They looked like runes, but faded—as if they'd been burned or cut into his skin and then healed improperly."
The sketch showed a pattern of thin lines forming symbols Harry didn't recognize, though some elements resembled the Crucible Rune they'd been investigating.
"Did he ever talk about what happened to him? Before he came here?"
Daphne shook her head. "Hardly at all. He had episodes where he would become almost catatonic, staring at nothing for hours. Other times, he seemed like any normal, albeit quiet, child."
She smiled faintly at a memory. "He loved wizarding chess. We would play for hours when I was home on breaks. He was remarkably good for his age—always thinking several moves ahead."
"Did he ever mention Halcyon House or other children?"
"Just once," Daphne said, flipping to another page. "During a thunderstorm in October. The lightning triggered something—a panic attack, perhaps a flashback. He kept saying 'They're hurting Marcus again. I can hear him screaming.' When I asked who Marcus was, he looked terrified and wouldn't speak for two days."
Harry made notes of his own. "And after three months?"
"Ministry officials came to collect him. They said he was being transferred to a 'more suitable long-term placement.' My parents requested to maintain contact, but were informed that all communication would be handled through official channels 'for the child's security.'"
"But you kept track of him anyway," Harry guessed.
Daphne's expression confirmed it. "For a while. I had contacts at the Ministry—fellow Slytherins who owed me favors. Cillian was placed with a wizarding family in Cornwall, seemed to be adjusting well. I received unofficial updates for almost two years."
"And then?"
"And then nothing," Daphne said, frustration evident in her voice. "He vanished from the system. My contact said his file had been sealed at the highest level, and no one would tell her why. The official story was that he'd been transferred to a specialized care facility abroad, but..."
"But you didn't believe it," Harry finished for her.
"No," Daphne agreed. "It was too abrupt, too secretive. By then, I was fully immersed in my Healing career, with limited time and resources to investigate further." She looked at him directly. "Until now."
Harry began spreading out Belby's files on the table. "Let's see if we can find him in these records."
They worked in companionable silence for nearly an hour, sorting through the cryptic files. Each contained only minimal information—subject numbers instead of names, brief medical notations, and location codes that referenced places not identified in the documents themselves.
"This is all smokescreen," Daphne said eventually, frustrated. "These records were designed to be meaningless without some external key or cipher."
Harry nodded, equally frustrated. "A security measure. The real information must be stored separately."
"Wait," Daphne said suddenly, pulling a particular file closer. "Subject 37C—male, age ten at intake, magical trauma categorization level 4, memory binding protocol modified Crucible."
"Cillian?"
"Possibly. The age matches, and there's a notation about placement with a 'neutral pureblood family' followed by transfer to 'secondary guardian location SW-12.'"
"SW could be southwest," Harry suggested. "Cornwall would fit that designation."
"And here," Daphne pointed to a later entry, "Subject transferred to secure facility HC-3 following incident at guardian location. Protocol DORMANT activated."
"Dormant?" Harry frowned. "What kind of protocol is that?"
Daphne shook her head. "I don't know, but look at the date—March 2001. That matches when my contact lost track of him."
Harry leaned back in his chair, processing this information. "We need to see where he was staying. Do you remember which room was his?"
"Of course," Daphne said, standing. "It's the blue bedroom in the east wing now. We use it for guests."
They made their way up the grand staircase and through corridors lined with more landscapes and the occasional abstract magical artwork that shifted and flowed as they passed. The east wing was quieter, the lighting softer.
"Here," Daphne said, stopping at a door carved with delicate constellations. "This was his room."
The blue bedroom was exactly as its name suggested—decorated in varying shades of blue with astronomical motifs on the ceiling enchanted to mirror the actual night sky. A four-poster bed stood against one wall, its hangings a deep midnight blue. The room was immaculate, with no trace of the child who had once occupied it.
"It's been redecorated several times since he stayed here," Daphne explained, moving to the large window that overlooked the gardens. "But the structure is the same."
Harry walked slowly around the perimeter, his Auror instincts engaged. "Did he have any possessions? Toys, books?"
"Very few," Daphne replied. "The Ministry provided basic necessities—clothes, some books. My mother bought him a stuffed dragon that he carried everywhere. And I gave him his own wizarding chess set."
Harry knelt by the window seat, running his fingers along the wooden frame. "Children often hide things in their rooms. Places they think adults won't check."
Daphne joined him, a look of realization crossing her face. "I never thought to... after all this time..."
Together they examined the window seat, finding nothing unusual. Harry then moved to the baseboards, checking for loose panels, while Daphne inspected the wardrobe.
"Potter," she called softly after several minutes. "Look at this."
She was standing by the window, her hand under the deep wooden sill. Harry joined her, bending to see what she'd found. There, carved crudely into the undersized of the sill, was a version of the Crucible Rune—but with modifications different from those they'd seen at the crime scenes.
"He carved this," Daphne whispered. "But why? And how did he know the pattern?"
Harry studied the carving carefully. "The rune was used on him—maybe he remembered it subconsciously. Or maybe he saw it somewhere in Halcyon House."
"But these modifications," Daphne traced the pattern with her finger. "They're different from the ones we saw before. More... chaotic."
"A child's attempt to recreate something he only partially remembered," Harry suggested. "Or deliberately altered to serve some purpose we don't understand yet."
Daphne straightened, her expression troubled. "What happened to him, Potter? What did they do to these children?"
"I don't know," Harry admitted. "But we're going to find out."
They returned to the library, both lost in their own thoughts. The discovery of the rune had shifted something—made the abstract investigation suddenly more personal, more urgent.
"There's one more thing I should show you," Daphne said as they re-entered the library. "Something I hadn't connected until now."
She moved to a section of shelving near the fireplace, pressing a hidden mechanism that caused a panel to slide aside, revealing a small safe. With a complex wand movement, she unlocked it and withdrew a leather-bound ledger.
"My father's financial records from the post-war period," she explained, placing it on the table. "I noticed something unusual when I was helping him organize his affairs last year."
She opened the ledger to a marked page, pointing to a series of entries. "Here—regular donations to the 'Children's Rehabilitation Initiative.' Substantial amounts, continuing for three years after the war."
Harry examined the entries. "Your family was funding the project?"
"Apparently," Daphne said, frowning. "Which makes no sense. My parents aren't philanthropists, and they certainly weren't enthusiastic Ministry supporters after the war."
"Could they have been paying for Cillian's care?" Harry suggested.
"The amounts are too large for one child," Daphne shook her head. "And they continued long after he left our home."
The door of the library opened, and Cyrus Greengrass entered, his expression carefully neutral as he took in the ledger open on the table.
"I see you've been thorough in your investigation," he said, his voice betraying nothing of his thoughts.
Daphne straightened. "Father, we need to understand what happened. Two Healers are dead, and there may be a connection to Cillian and the other children from Halcyon House."
Cyrus was silent for a moment, his eyes darting between them. Finally, he sighed almost imperceptibly. "The donations were not entirely voluntary."
Harry's attention sharpened. "You were coerced?"
"'Encouraged' would be the diplomatic term," Cyrus replied, moving to stand by the fireplace. "After the war, many families found themselves in precarious positions, Mr. Potter. Even those who hadn't actively supported either side."
"The Ministry leveraged your neutral stance," Harry guessed. "Implied that without some demonstration of support for their initiatives, your family might face greater scrutiny."
"Precisely," Cyrus nodded. "Hosting Cillian was part of that arrangement—proof of our willingness to assist in the rebuilding efforts. The financial contributions ensured continued... goodwill from certain Ministry departments."
"Blackmail," Daphne said flatly.
Her father's expression tightened. "Politics, Daphne. Something our family has navigated for generations. One makes certain compromises to ensure survival."
"And what about Cillian?" Harry asked. "Was he just a 'compromise' too?"
Something flickered in Cyrus's eyes—a hint of genuine emotion breaking through his composed exterior. "The boy deserved better than he received. From all of us."
"Did you know what they were doing to the children at Halcyon House?" Harry pressed. "The memory binding rituals?"
"We were told it was therapeutic," Cyrus said carefully. "That the children had witnessed horrors during the war and needed specialized magical treatment to recover."
"And you believed that?" Daphne asked, her tone skeptical.
"I chose to believe it," her father corrected. "The alternative—questioning the Ministry's methods so soon after the war, when our family's position was already tenuous—seemed unwise."
Harry studied the older man, sensing there was more he wasn't saying. "When Cillian left your home, did you notice anything unusual about him? Any changes in his behavior or magic?"
Cyrus hesitated, glancing at his daughter before answering. "The nightmares had worsened. And there were... incidents. Moments when he seemed to access memories that shouldn't have been there."
"What kind of memories?" Daphne asked sharply.
"He spoke languages he shouldn't have known," Cyrus said quietly. "Ancient magical tongues that even I, with my extensive education, could barely recognize. And once, during a particularly severe episode, he recited what appeared to be ritual phrases in a voice that..." he paused, clearly uncomfortable with the memory, "...in a voice that was not his own."
Harry and Daphne exchanged alarmed glances.
"Why didn't you report this?" Daphne demanded.
"To whom?" her father countered. "The very Ministry officials who had placed him with us? Who had performed whatever magic had caused these symptoms in the first place?"
Before either Harry or Daphne could respond, his Auror medallion suddenly grew hot against his chest. He quickly pulled it out, his eyes narrowing as he read the words etched on the surface:
EMERGENCY. IMMEDIATE AUROR RESPONSE REQUIRED.
LOCATION: CHIEF ADMNISTRATOR OFFICE, MAGICAL TRAUMA WING, FOURTH FLOOR, ST. MUNGO'S HOSPITAL.
Harry's eyes widened as realization dawned on him.
"What is it?" Daphne asked, already knowing it wouldn't be good news.
"Belby," he said, his voice tight. "He's been found dead in his office. And I bet it would be the same as the others."
Daphne was already on her feet. "We need to go. Now."
Cyrus stepped back, his expression grave. "Be careful, both of you. Whatever this is... it's clearly far more dangerous than any of us realized."
As they hurried from the library, Harry caught Daphne's eye. The look they exchanged needed no words—whoever was eliminating witnesses had accelerated their timeline. They were now in a race against an adversary willing to kill anyone connected to the secrets of Halcyon House.
And they still didn't know who or what they were truly fighting against.
TBC.
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Thanks for reading.