The late April sunlight filtered weakly through the enchanted windows of St. Mungo's Hospital, creating a false cheeriness that couldn't quite penetrate the solemn atmosphere of the fifth floor. Unlike the hustle and bustle of the lower floors—with their urgent cases of magical maladies, hexes gone wrong, and creature-induced injuries—the Psychological Healing Ward moved at a different pace. Here, the wounds being treated weren't visible to the naked eye, but ran far deeper than any physical injury.
Daphne Greengrass sat perfectly poised in her office chair, her quill hovering above her notepad as she observed the man across from her. At twenty-eight, she had blossomed into the classical beauty that had marked her Hogwarts years, though her features had matured into something more striking than pretty. Her dark blonde hair was pulled back in a neat twist, and her sapphire blue eyes—watchful and perceptive—missed nothing as they tracked the nervous movements of her patient.
"Mr. Pierce," she said, her voice calm and measured, "you mentioned that the episodes have been occurring more frequently in the past week. Can you tell me what triggers them?"
Morgan Pierce was a thin, balding man in his early forties who, despite the warmth of the office, wore a high-collared Ministry robe buttoned to his throat. His right hand kept drifting up to his temple, fingers tapping against the skin as if checking for something, before he'd catch himself and force the hand back down to his lap.
"I—it's hard to pinpoint exactly," he said, his voice tight. "They seem to come out of nowhere. One minute I'm reviewing files at my desk, and the next I'm..." He trailed off, swallowing hard. "I'm back there, in that cellar, with them all around me."
Daphne nodded, her quill making a brief note on the parchment. "The Death Eaters from your interrogation during the war?"
Pierce's eyes darted to the corner of the room, then back to her face. "Yes. Though sometimes the faces change. Sometimes they're—" He stopped abruptly, that hand flying back to his temple again.
"They're what, Mr. Pierce?" Daphne prompted gently.
"Nothing. Just... distortions. Memory plays tricks, doesn't it? Especially after trauma." He forced a tight smile that didn't reach his eyes. "The Department has been particularly stressful lately. Perhaps that's why the episodes have returned."
"Your work at the Ministry," Daphne said carefully, watching his reaction. "You're in the Department of Magical Child Welfare, correct? Has something changed there recently?"
Pierce's entire body tensed, a slight tremor running through his shoulders. "Just the usual bureaucracy. Budget constraints. New directives."
Daphne noted how his anxiety had spiked at the mention of his department. It wasn't the first time she'd observed this pattern. "And how are the children in your care handling these changes?"
For a brief moment, something flickered in Pierce's eyes—a flash of what looked like genuine distress, perhaps even fear. "The children are..." he began, then stopped himself. "The program is proceeding as planned. Everything is perfectly under control."
The program? Daphne made another note, keeping her expression neutral. Pierce had never mentioned a specific program before.
"I've been meaning to ask you about your methods," Pierce said suddenly, clearly changing the subject. "Your approach to memory work. It's quite... innovative, I hear."
Daphne allowed the deflection for now. "I combine traditional Healing practices with some techniques I've developed myself. The mind isn't like a broken bone—there's rarely a single spell that can mend it. Trauma, especially magical trauma, requires a more nuanced approach."
"And what exactly does this 'nuanced approach' entail?" His tone was sharper now, almost probing.
"It varies by patient," she replied evenly. "For some, talk therapy is sufficient. For others, guided meditation with magical support helps access and process difficult memories. In more severe cases, a gentle form of Legilimency—always with full consent—can help identify magical blocks or memory distortions."
Pierce's hand shot to his temple again, pressing harder this time. "Legilimency?" he echoed, his voice strained. "That sounds rather... invasive."
"Not the way I practice it," Daphne assured him. "Traditional Legilimency tears through the mind's defenses. My method is more akin to walking alongside a patient through their own memories, helping them face what they find difficult to confront alone." She paused, studying his reaction. "It's entirely optional, of course."
"And do you... do you use Pensieves as well?" Pierce asked, his eyes now fixed on a point just over her shoulder.
"Sometimes. Though memory extraction isn't always beneficial for healing. Often, it's better to learn to live with difficult memories than to remove them." She leaned forward slightly. "Mr. Pierce, you seem particularly concerned about memory manipulation today. Is there something specific you're worried about?"
For a moment, Pierce seemed on the verge of saying something important. His lips parted, eyes meeting hers directly for perhaps the first time in their session. Then the moment passed, and his professional mask slipped back into place.
"Just professional curiosity," he said with forced lightness. "One hears things about new therapeutic approaches."
Daphne decided to try a different angle. She set her quill down and folded her hands in her lap. "Mr. Pierce, we've been working together for nearly six months now. You've made progress with the trauma from your wartime experiences, but I sense there's something more immediate troubling you today. Something perhaps related to your current work."
Pierce's gaze shifted to the window, where the enchanted view showed a peaceful London skyline. "The war never really ended for some of us," he said quietly. "We just... changed battlefields."
The statement hung in the air between them, brimming with unspoken meaning. Before Daphne could pursue it further, Pierce's next words came in a rush.
"I haven't been entirely forthcoming with you, Healer Greengrass. There are aspects of my work that are... sensitive. Ministry confidentiality, you understand." His fingers drummed nervously on the armrest of his chair. "But lately, things are being stirred up again. Questions being asked by people who shouldn't be asking them."
"What kind of questions?" Daphne asked, her voice deliberately soft, non-threatening.
"About the children," Pierce said, then immediately looked as if he regretted the words. "About our protocols. Standard procedure reviews, of course, but the timing is... concerning."
Daphne recalled her brief time during the war—not fighting on the front lines like Potter and his friends, but in her own way, resisting from the shadows. After the Battle of Hogwarts had ended, she had returned to Greengrass Manor, where her parents maintained their carefully neutral stance publicly while privately providing refuge to those in danger. She remembered the fear that permeated those days, the careful coding of language, the constant vigilance.
Pierce was displaying many of those same behaviors now.
"Mr. Pierce," she said carefully, "with your permission, I'd like to try a brief, guided Legilimency session. It might help us identify what's causing your recent anxiety spikes."
To her surprise, after a moment's hesitation, Pierce nodded. "Perhaps that would be... clarifying. But nothing too deep. Just the surface thoughts."
"Of course," Daphne assured him. "You'll remain fully conscious and in control. If at any point you wish to stop, simply say so or visualize a closed door."
She moved her chair closer to his, their knees nearly touching. "Close your eyes and take three deep breaths. On the third exhale, I want you to think about your workplace—whatever image comes first to mind when I say 'Department of Magical Child Welfare.'"
Pierce followed her instructions, his chest rising and falling in measured breaths. As he exhaled the third time, Daphne drew her wand and murmured, "Legilimens," so softly it was barely audible.
Unlike the jarring, invasive Legilimency she'd witnessed during the war, Daphne's technique was gentle—a careful exploration rather than a forceful intrusion. She felt herself slide into the periphery of Pierce's consciousness, not digging for memories but allowing them to surface naturally in response to her prompt.
What she found was... strange. Where most minds were organic, memories flowing from one to another in natural association, Pierce's mind felt compartmentalized. Rigidly so. As if certain thoughts had been sealed off behind invisible barriers. When she attempted to move toward his memories of work, she encountered a curious resistance—not the natural shields of Occlumency, but something more artificial.
An image flickered briefly—a long corridor with numerous doors, each bearing a number rather than a name. Children's voices echoed, but they sounded oddly flat, as if rehearsed. A large room with several children sitting in a circle, each holding a small, glowing object. Then, abruptly, the image vanished, replaced by a sterile meeting room with Ministry officials discussing budget allocations.
"Stop." Pierce's voice cut through the connection, breaking the spell. His eyes flew open, wide with alarm. "That's enough for today."
Daphne withdrew immediately, settling back in her chair. What she'd glimpsed had been brief but troubling. Those weren't natural memory flows; they'd been heavily modified, possibly even partially obliviated and reconstructed.
"Mr. Pierce," she said carefully, "I noticed some unusual memory patterns just now. Have you ever undergone significant memory modification?"
The color drained from Pierce's face. "I don't know what you mean."
"Professional memory charms leave distinctive traces. What I saw suggests multiple layers of memory manipulation, far beyond standard Ministry security protocols." She kept her tone clinical, non-accusatory.
Pierce stood abruptly, gathering his cloak with shaking hands. "I think we've done enough for today, Healer Greengrass."
"Mr. Pierce, if someone has been tampering with your memories—"
"You're imagining things," he cut her off, his voice sharp. "Perhaps your innovative techniques need refinement."
"Morgan," she said, deliberately using his first name to break through his professional facade, "if you're in some kind of trouble—"
"The children's program is none of your concern," he snapped, then immediately looked horrified at his own words. "I mean—there is no program. Just standard welfare procedures." He moved toward the door with unsteady steps. "I need to reschedule. I'm not feeling well."
"Of course," Daphne replied, standing as well. "But please consider what I've said. Memory tampering of the magnitude I glimpsed can have serious long-term consequences for your mental health."
Pierce paused at the door, his hand on the knob. For a moment, he seemed to wage some internal battle. "Some things are best left alone, Healer Greengrass," he said finally. "For everyone's safety." Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
Daphne remained standing, staring at the closed door with a frown. In her years as a Mind Healer, she'd encountered many trauma responses, many secrets, many fears. But rarely had she seen such systematic memory tampering in a Ministry official—not since the immediate aftermath of the war, when many who had collaborated under the Imperius Curse (or claimed to have done so) underwent "therapeutic memory restructuring" to help them reintegrate into society.
But Pierce's case was different. The modifications were recent. Ongoing, even.
She made several rapid notes in her patient file, encrypting them with a spell of her own devising—a precaution she'd developed during the war and had never quite abandoned. Something was deeply wrong at the Department of Magical Child Welfare, and Morgan Pierce was terrified of it.
A soft chime from her enchanted desk clock reminded her that her next appointment would begin in fifteen minutes—just enough time to organize her notes and prepare. Pushing thoughts of Pierce aside for the moment, she began rearranging her office, switching the calming blue lights more suited to anxiety cases to a warmer amber glow that helped with depression.
A knock at her door interrupted her preparations. Her receptionist, Mira, a young witch just out of Hogwarts, poked her head in.
"Healer Greengrass? There's an Auror here asking questions about one of your patients. An Ellis Travers?" Mira's expression was concerned. "He's rather... insistent."
Daphne felt a chill run through her. Ellis Travers—another Ministry employee from Child Welfare, another patient with strange memory patterns and growing anxiety. She'd seen him just yesterday for an emergency session after his regularly scheduled Tuesday appointment.
"Did the Auror say what this is regarding?" she asked, keeping her voice level.
"No, ma'am. Just that it's urgent. And, well..." Mira lowered her voice. "It's Harry Potter."
Of course it was. The universe had a perverse sense of humor.
"Show him in, please," Daphne said, straightening her healer's robes and mentally shifting into her most professional demeanor. "And reschedule my next appointment for later this afternoon."
Mira nodded and disappeared. Moments later, the door reopened to admit a tall figure in the distinctive crimson robes of an Auror.
Harry Potter had changed since Hogwarts, Daphne reflected. Gone was the scrawny, perpetually disheveled boy with the weight of the wizarding world on his shoulders. The man who stood before her now carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who had faced the worst and survived. His black hair was still unruly, but his face had lost its boyish roundness, replaced by sharper angles and a determined set to his jaw. The famous scar was barely visible now, a faint silver line partially hidden by his fringe.
The green eyes, however, were the same—piercing and direct as they assessed her.
"Healer Greengrass," he said with a curt nod. "Thank you for seeing me without an appointment."
"Auror Potter," she replied, matching his formal tone. "I understand you have questions about a patient of mine."
"Ellis Travers," Potter confirmed, making no move to sit despite her gesture toward the visitor's chair. "When did you last see him?"
Something in his phrasing sent a warning signal through Daphne's mind. "Before I answer any questions, I need to know the nature of your inquiry. Patient confidentiality is a core principle of mind healing."
Potter's expression tightened slightly. "Ellis Travers was found dead this morning in Knockturn Alley. Murdered."
The news hit Daphne like a physical blow. She sank into her chair, momentarily forgetting her composed healer's persona. "Murdered? How?"
"I'm afraid I can't share the details of an ongoing investigation," Potter replied, using her own professional reticence against her. "But I need to know when you last saw him and what you discussed."
Daphne took a moment to process the shock. Ellis Travers—dead. The quiet, nervous man who had come to her yesterday in a state of barely controlled panic, claiming he was being followed, that he'd discovered something terrible...
"I saw him yesterday," she said finally. "He had a regular Tuesday appointment, but he also came in for an emergency session late yesterday afternoon, around 5:30."
"And what was the nature of this emergency?" Potter asked, finally taking the seat across from her. His posture remained alert, almost tense, as if ready to spring up at any moment.
Daphne chose her words carefully. "I'm sure you're aware that healer-patient confidentiality doesn't end with death, Auror Potter. There are strict magical guidelines—"
"A man is dead," Potter interrupted, a flash of that famous temper showing through his professional veneer. "Murdered in one of the most brutal ways I've seen since the war. If there's anything you know that might help us catch whoever did this—"
"I understand the urgency," Daphne cut in, her own composure momentarily slipping. "But I also understand the law. Without a direct order from the Minister of Magic himself, I cannot disclose the content of my sessions with Mr. Travers or any other patient."
They stared at each other across the desk, neither willing to back down. Daphne was acutely aware of their history—or lack thereof. At Hogwarts, she had been a Slytherin who kept to herself during the war, neither joining Malfoy's crowd of Voldemort supporters nor openly defying them like Potter and his friends. To him, she was probably just another snake, automatically suspect.
"What exactly do you do here, Greengrass?" Potter asked suddenly.
"I'm a Mind Healer specializing in war trauma and memory recovery," she replied. "I help people process traumatic experiences and heal from psychological wounds that standard magical medicine can't touch."
"And Travers came to you for war trauma?"
Daphne hesitated. This much she could probably share without violating confidentiality. "Initially, yes. Like many Ministry employees who remained at their posts during the regime, he experienced trauma that went untreated for years."
Potter's expression shifted slightly, becoming more thoughtful. "And recently? What was he seeing you for recently?"
"I can't answer that specifically," she said. "But I can tell you, hypothetically speaking, that patients who work in high-stress environments often experience a resurgence of earlier trauma symptoms when faced with new stressors."
"Hypothetically speaking," Potter echoed with a hint of sarcasm. "Was Travers afraid of something? Or someone?"
Daphne met his gaze steadily. "Many of my patients experience anxiety and hypervigilance as symptoms of their conditions."
Potter leaned forward, his voice lowered. "I'm not here to compromise your professional ethics, Healer Greengrass. But a man is dead—a man who worked with vulnerable children, who was seeing you for some kind of psychological issue, and who had an 'emergency' session the day before he was murdered. Surely you can see why I need to know what he was afraid of."
Something in his earnestness reminded Daphne of the boy who had stood up to Umbridge, who had fought against Voldemort when the Ministry denied his return. Whatever their past associations, Potter was trying to solve a murder, not persecute former Slytherins.
"I can tell you this much," she said finally. "Mr. Travers was increasingly anxious in recent weeks. Yesterday, he was particularly agitated, claiming he was being followed and that he had discovered something that put him in danger." She paused, considering her next words carefully. "He mentioned his work repeatedly, though he was careful not to specify details."
"His work with orphaned children?" Potter pressed.
"With the Department of Magical Child Welfare," she corrected. "The specific nature of his role was something he was always guarded about."
Potter nodded slowly, making a note in a small leather-bound notebook he'd pulled from his pocket. "Did he mention any names? Anyone he was particularly concerned about?"
"No specific individuals," Daphne said truthfully. "But he did mention—" She stopped, remembering Pierce's similar anxiety and his slip about 'the children's program.' "He expressed concern about certain Ministry initiatives involving children. He didn't elaborate."
Something flashed in Potter's eyes—recognition, perhaps. "Did he ever mention anything about memory extraction? Or unusual magical procedures?"
The question was so specific, so aligned with what she'd observed in both Travers and Pierce, that Daphne couldn't hide her surprise. "Why do you ask that particular question?"
Instead of answering directly, Potter pulled out a small card and placed it on her desk. She recognized it immediately—the appointment card she'd given to Travers for his next session.
"St. Mungo's Hospital, 6th Floor, Psychological Healing Ward," Potter read. "Except St. Mungo's doesn't have a sixth floor, does it?"
"It does now," Daphne replied. "It was added last year—a secure facility for specialized magical memory treatment. Access is restricted to certified healers and approved patients."
"And what happens on this sixth floor that can't happen here on the fifth?"
Daphne hesitated. The sixth floor was indeed specialized—designed for cases of severe magical memory damage or manipulation that required more intensive intervention than standard therapy could provide.
"The sixth floor houses our advanced memory treatment facilities," she said carefully. "For cases involving significant magical memory trauma or complex memory charms that have caused psychological damage."
"Like Obliviation gone wrong?" Potter suggested.
"That, and other forms of magical memory manipulation," she confirmed. "It's delicate work, requiring specialized equipment and extensive safety protocols."
Potter studied her for a moment, as if deciding how much to share. "Travers was killed by a form of memory extraction I've never seen before," he said finally. "His memories weren't just viewed or copied—they were ripped out of his mind entirely. Violently. Fatally."
Daphne felt the blood drain from her face. As a Mind Healer, she understood better than most the intimate connection between memory and personhood, between mind and life itself. To have one's memories forcibly extracted to the point of death was not just murder—it was an obliteration of self, a violation so profound it defied description.
"That's... that shouldn't be possible," she whispered. "Standard memory extraction is a copy process. It leaves the original intact."
"This wasn't standard," Potter said grimly. "And I need to know if Travers said anything—anything at all—that might indicate who would want specific memories from him badly enough to kill him for them."
Daphne closed her eyes briefly, weighing her professional obligations against the horror of what Potter had described. "He believed he had discovered something about the children in his department's care," she said finally. "Something that contradicted official records. He was planning to investigate further, against the explicit instructions of his superiors."
"Did he say what he'd discovered?"
"No. He was careful not to reveal specifics, saying it was for my own protection." She met Potter's gaze directly. "But whatever it was, it terrified him. And not just for himself—he was worried about the children."
Potter wrote rapidly in his notebook. "One more question. Did Travers ever mention having his own memories modified as part of his work?"
The question matched so precisely what she'd observed in Pierce that Daphne couldn't help but react. "Why would you ask that?"
"Just answer the question, please," Potter pressed.
"I can't comment on specific therapeutic observations," she said carefully. "But hypothetically speaking, if a Ministry employee showed signs of professional memory modification, it wouldn't be entirely surprising. Certain departments use controlled Obliviation for security purposes."
"But if those modifications appeared excessive or potentially harmful?"
Daphne leaned forward slightly. "Then as a Mind Healer, I would be concerned. And I would look for patterns among similar patients."
Their eyes met in a moment of unspoken understanding. Potter closed his notebook and stood. "Thank you for your time, Healer Greengrass. If you think of anything else that might be relevant—within your professional boundaries, of course—please contact me directly." He handed her a small card with his office details.
"I will," she promised, rising as well. "And Auror Potter? Be careful with this investigation. If someone is willing to kill to protect these secrets..."
"It wouldn't be the first time," he finished for her, a shadow crossing his face. "But I'd rather know what I'm facing than stumble around in the dark."
As he turned to leave, Daphne called after him. "Potter. Ellis Travers wasn't the only Ministry employee from Child Welfare who's been showing increased anxiety lately."
He paused at the door, looking back at her. "Anyone in particular I should be aware of?"
She hesitated, thinking of patient confidentiality, of ethical boundaries—and of Morgan Pierce's fear-stricken face as he'd fled her office less than an hour ago.
"I can't give you names," she said. "But if I were investigating this case, I'd look closely at the entire department. Whatever Travers stumbled upon might not be isolated."
Potter nodded once, understanding her meaning. "I appreciate your cooperation, Healer Greengrass." There was a new note of respect in his voice, a small but significant shift.
After he left, Daphne sank back into her chair, her mind racing. Two patients from the same department, both showing signs of memory tampering, both increasingly anxious, both mentioning "the children" with the same fearful reverence. And now one was dead—his memories violently extracted.
She retrieved Travers' file from her magically locked cabinet, reviewing her notes from yesterday's emergency session. He had been nearly incoherent with panic, convinced he was being followed, that "they knew he knew." When she'd attempted to calm him with a mild Legilimency session, she'd encountered the same strange memory compartmentalization she'd seen in Pierce—artificial barriers and restructured memories, far beyond standard security protocols.
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts. "Healer Greengrass?" Mira called through the door. "Your next patient canceled, and it's nearly lunchtime. Would you like me to order something from the tearoom?"
"No, thank you, Mira," Daphne replied. "I have some notes to organize. I'll grab something later."
Once alone again, she returned to her desk, intending to encrypt her observations from the morning's sessions. As she reached for her quill, her eyes fell on something that hadn't been there before—a slim black appointment book, bound in dragonhide, sitting at the edge of her desk.
Morgan Pierce's planner. He must have left it behind in his haste to leave.
Daphne hesitated, torn between professional ethics and growing concern. Opening a patient's personal item without permission was a breach of trust. But if Pierce was in the same danger that had claimed Travers' life...
Decision made, she reached for the book. To her surprise, it opened without resistance—no magical locks or privacy charms. Inside, she found standard appointment notations, ministry meetings, and personal reminders. Nothing immediately suspicious.
Until she reached entries from five years ago. Here, the neat handwriting gave way to cryptic notations:
Project H - Phase 1 approval from upstairs. M.P. hesitant but overruled.
First subjects selected. Seven total. Ages 6-9. Orphaned during final battle.
Initial results promising. Memory malleability higher than adults. Integration seamless.
S.J. concerned about ethical implications. Reminded of greater good. Discussion terminated.
The entries continued in this vein, growing increasingly technical and abbreviated, with mentions of "extraction rates," "compatibility factors," and something called "resonance testing." Most disturbing were occasional notes about "subject fatigue" and "acceptable collateral effects."
Daphne felt her blood run cold. Whatever "Project H" was, it involved magical procedures on war orphans—children who had no one to protect them, no one to notice if something went wrong.
She flipped forward to recent entries, finding increasingly anxious notes:
T. asking too many questions. Claims discrepancies in records. Need to contain situation.
T. requesting access to original files. Denied. Security protocols invoked.
T. threatened to go to Potter. Immediate intervention required.
The last entry, dated yesterday—the day of Travers' emergency session with her—contained just three words:
T. knows everything.
Daphne closed the book with trembling hands. This was evidence—perhaps not of who had killed Travers, but certainly of why. She should take this directly to Potter, explain what she'd found...
But something held her back. Pierce had left this book in her office right after speaking about "people asking questions who shouldn't be." What if it wasn't an accident? What if he'd wanted her to find it? Or what if he was in immediate danger, like Travers had been?
She needed to check on him first. Making a swift decision, she tucked the appointment book into her robes and grabbed her cloak. She scrawled a quick note to Mira explaining that she had a personal emergency and would be back for her afternoon appointments.
The hospital corridors were busy with the lunchtime rush as she made her way to the public Floo network on the ground floor. Healers in lime-green robes mingled with patients and visitors, their conversations creating a constant background hum that helped mask her own sense of urgency.
At the Floo station, she hesitated. Pierce's home address would be in his patient file, which she'd left securely locked in her office. But she remembered him mentioning that he lived in a quiet wizard community in Hampstead—a modest house with warded gardens that helped with his anxiety.
She took a pinch of Floo powder, stepped into the emerald flames, and clearly stated, "Hampstead Wizarding Post Office." If she couldn't go directly to his home, she could at least get to the nearest magical location and find her way from there.
The spinning sensation of Floo travel did nothing to calm her racing thoughts. As she emerged in the small, quaint postal office in Hampstead, brushing soot from her healer's robes, she was already formulating her plan. She would find Pierce's house, return his appointment book, and subtly assess whether he was in danger. If he seemed safe, she would return to St. Mungo's and contact Potter directly about what she'd found.
What she wouldn't do—couldn't do—was nothing. Not when Ellis Travers had died so horrifically for what he knew. Not when children might be involved in whatever dark secret the Department of Magical Child Welfare was hiding.
The elderly witch behind the post office counter looked up as Daphne approached. "Can I help you, dearie?"
"I'm looking for Morgan Pierce's residence," Daphne said, keeping her voice casual. "I believe it's nearby, but I've forgotten the exact address."
The postmistress's eyebrows rose slightly. "Mr. Pierce, is it? Bit of a private one, he is. Doesn't get many visitors." Her gaze traveled over Daphne's healer robes. "Though I suppose that's different for St. Mungo's folk."
"I need to deliver some important documents," Daphne explained, not entirely untruthfully. "It's rather urgent."
The witch studied her for a moment longer, then nodded toward a large map of the area that hung on the wall. "Heathview Gardens, number seventeen. Northeast corner, backing onto the Heath. Can't miss it—only house with silver moonflowers growing along the fence."
"Thank you," Daphne said with relief. "Is it within walking distance?"
"About ten minutes that way," the witch replied, pointing. "Follow the lane past the old oak tree, then take the second right."
Daphne thanked her again and stepped out into the misty spring air. The weather had turned since morning, with low clouds threatening rain and a chill wind rustling the new leaves on the trees. As she walked, the appointment book seemed to grow heavier in her pocket, its secrets pressing against her consciousness.
What had Travers discovered about these children? What was "Project H," and how high up did it go? The entry about "approval from upstairs" suggested senior Ministry involvement—perhaps even Ministerial level.
And most importantly—who had killed Travers, and was Pierce next?
The neighborhood grew quieter as she followed the winding lane, wizard dwellings becoming more spaced out, hidden behind tall hedges and privacy charms. Number seventeen was exactly as the postmistress had described—a modest stone cottage with a well-tended garden surrounded by a low fence where silver moonflowers trembled in the breeze, their luminous petals closed until nightfall.
As Daphne approached the gate, she felt a slight resistance—passive wards checking her magical signature for hostile intent. After a moment, they relaxed, allowing her to push the gate open and walk up the stone path to the front door.
The house seemed quiet. Too quiet, perhaps. No smoke from the chimney despite the chilly day, no lights visible through the windows. Daphne raised her hand to knock, but hesitated, a sense of unease washing over her.
Something felt wrong.
She drew her wand discreetly, holding it close to her side as she knocked firmly on the door. "Mr. Pierce? It's Healer Greengrass. You left something at your appointment this morning."
Silence answered her. She knocked again, louder this time. "Morgan? Are you home?"
When no response came, she stepped back, surveying the cottage more carefully. The curtains were drawn across all windows—unusual for this time of day. She moved to the nearest window and peered through a small gap in the fabric.
The interior was dark, but she could make out the shapes of furniture in what appeared to be a sitting room. Nothing seemed obviously disturbed, but something about the stillness felt unnatural.
"Homenum Revelio," she whispered, casting the spell to detect human presence.
Nothing. The house was empty—or at least, contained no living human.
Daphne felt her heart rate quicken. Pierce had left her office less than two hours ago. Where could he have gone? Had he returned home and then left again? Or had he gone somewhere else directly after their session?
Or had someone gotten to him before she could?
She stepped back from the window, clutching the appointment book in her pocket. Sudden doubt assailed her—had she made the right decision in coming here first instead of going straight to Potter? What if Pierce was already dead, like Travers, his memories violently extracted by whoever was protecting the secrets of "Project H"?
And what if, by possessing this appointment book, she had now made herself a target as well?
Thunder rumbled in the distance as dark clouds gathered overhead. Daphne looked once more at the silent house, feeling the first drops of rain on her face. Whatever had happened to Morgan Pierce, she wouldn't find answers standing in his garden. She needed to get to Potter, to share what she'd learned before anyone else died—or before she became the next victim.
As she turned to leave, the appointment book seemed to burn against her side. The secrets it contained might cost her her life, but the alternative—doing nothing while children were potentially being harmed—was unthinkable.
With one last look at the empty cottage, Daphne stepped back through the gate and hurried down the lane, the rain beginning to fall in earnest. She had only gone a few paces when she noticed something odd—the silver moonflowers along the fence were trembling, despite being sheltered from the wind. Moonflowers responded to magical disturbances; it was why many wizards planted them as passive warning systems.
Someone had recently breached Pierce's wards.
Daphne turned back, her healer's instincts warring with self-preservation. If the person who'd killed Travers had already found Pierce...
Moving cautiously, she returned to the front door and tried the handle. It opened without resistance—no magical locks, no wards, nothing. Pierce would never leave his home so unprotected.
"Lumos," she whispered, stepping inside. The entryway was undisturbed, almost unnaturally tidy. She moved deeper into the house, calling softly, "Mr. Pierce?"
Only silence answered.
The sitting room was pristine, but as she passed through to a small study, Daphne noticed something out of place—a desk drawer slightly ajar, papers spilling out. On the desktop lay an open file labeled "Subject Records—Restricted," and beside it, a broken tea cup, its contents pooled on important-looking documents.
Signs of a struggle, or a hasty search.
She approached the desk, heart pounding as she examined the papers. Most were ministry forms with official stamps, but several bore handwritten notes in Pierce's neat script:
Memory extraction rates exceeding safety protocols—signs of cognitive degradation.
T. knows. Must warn G. before they come for me too.
G. Was that her? Had Pierce been coming to warn her when he'd fled her office?
Heart racing, Daphne set down the papers and raised her wand higher. "Lumos," she whispered, strengthening the light as she moved deeper into the house. Beyond the study was a narrow hallway leading to several closed doors. The first opened to a modest bedroom, untouched and orderly. The second revealed a small bathroom, equally undisturbed.
At the end of the hall stood a door that was different from the others—heavier, with strange markings etched into its frame. Magical symbols she recognized from her training as protective runes. Unlike the front door, this one still hummed with residual magic, though it too stood slightly ajar.
The staircase led down to what must have been a concealed basement. Against every instinct screaming at her to flee, Daphne began to descend the steps, one hand clutching the book, the other holding her wand aloft.
With her wand raised before her, Daphne pushed the door open wider and stepped through. As her wandlight swept across the room beyond, Daphne gasped, her mouth open in horror.
TBC.
Check out patreon.com/TheBlackEarl for early access to chapters and more.