The Minister for Magic's office had changed little since Kingsley Shacklebolt had taken the position ten years ago. Unlike his predecessors, who had decorated the grand room with ornate magical artifacts and self-aggrandizing portraits, Kingsley preferred functionality over ostentation. The walls remained a dignified navy blue, adorned only with a few magical maps that shifted and updated in real-time, tracking various magical disturbances across Britain. The massive oak desk—a centuries-old piece that had served every Minister since the Ministry's founding—was the room's centerpiece, currently buried beneath stacks of parchment that threatened to topple with each passing draft.
Harry Potter stood before that desk, his arms crossed, watching as Kingsley massaged his temples with long fingers. The Minister looked exhausted. Deep lines had etched themselves into his face over the years, and threads of silver now streaked his dark hair. The war had aged them all, but the peace that followed seemed to be aging Kingsley even faster.
"I understand your concern, Harry," Kingsley said in that deep, measured voice that had once brought comfort during the darkest days of the war. Now it just sounded weary. "But I can't authorize a full-scale investigation into the Department of Magical Child Welfare based on one suspicious death."
"It wasn't just a death, Kingsley," Harry countered, making no effort to hide his frustration. "Ellis Travers was murdered by a form of memory extraction I've never seen before. His mind was literally ripped apart."
"I've read your preliminary report." Kingsley gestured to the parchment in front of him. "It's disturbing, certainly. But what you're asking for—auror access to sealed departmental records, interrogation of ministry officials, resources diverted from active Dark wizard tracking—"
"This is active Dark wizard tracking," Harry insisted, leaning forward with his palms flat on the desk. "What happened to Travers wasn't just murder. It was Dark magic, powerful and targeted. And it's connected to something happening in Child Welfare."
Kingsley gave him a long, calculating look. "What makes you so certain?"
"Healer Greengrass at St. Mungo's said Travers was terrified about something he'd discovered at work. Something about the children."
"Daphne Greengrass?" Recognition flashed in Kingsley's eyes. "Cyrus Greengrass's daughter?"
"Yes. She's a Mind Healer now, specializing in war trauma." Harry ignored the flicker of unease that crossed Kingsley's face at the mention of a Greengrass. Old prejudices died hard, even for the best of them. "Travers was her patient. He had an emergency session with her the day before he was killed."
"And how much did she tell you about these sessions?" Kingsley asked, his tone carefully neutral.
"Not enough," Harry admitted. "Healer-patient confidentiality. But she made it clear that Travers was afraid, that he believed he'd uncovered something dangerous in his department—something involving children."
Kingsley sighed, rising from his chair to gaze out the enchanted window, which currently showed a view of London bathed in late afternoon sunlight. In reality, the Ministry was deep underground, but the weather charms had been set to "optimistic" for months now, regardless of the actual conditions outside.
"The Department of Magical Child Welfare was established in the immediate aftermath of the war," Kingsley said after a long pause. "It was one of the first new institutions we created, before the dust had even settled at Hogwarts."
"I remember," Harry said. "It was needed. Dozens of magical children orphaned, homes destroyed, families torn apart."
Kingsley nodded, still staring out at the illusory skyline. "We moved quickly—perhaps too quickly. The priority was getting those children to safety, processing them, finding them homes."
Something in Kingsley's tone made Harry pause. "What aren't you telling me?"
The Minister turned back to face him, his expression grave. "Those were desperate times, Harry. We were trying to rebuild a society while hunting down the remaining Death Eaters, processing hundreds of suspects, sorting out who had been willing participants and who had been coerced."
"I know all this, Kingsley. I was there."
"Not for everything." Kingsley returned to his desk, sinking back into his chair with a heaviness that seemed to go beyond physical exhaustion. "While you were testifying at trials and helping rebuild Hogwarts, the Ministry was making difficult decisions. Pragmatic decisions."
A cold feeling settled in Harry's stomach. "What kind of decisions?"
"The kinds that ensure stability in a fractured society." Kingsley steepled his fingers, looking at Harry over them. "After a civil war, perfect justice isn't always possible. Or even desirable."
Harry stared at him, a strange sense of déjà vu washing over him—the same feeling he'd had at seventeen when he'd learned the truth about Dumbledore's past, about the compromises and questionable choices that had shaped the man he'd idolized.
"Are you saying the Ministry covered something up? Something to do with these children?"
"I'm saying," Kingsley replied carefully, "that digging into certain post-war programs might unearth things better left buried for now."
Harry's jaw clenched. "A man is dead, Kingsley."
"And I want his killer found as much as you do," the Minister insisted, leaning forward. "But I need you to understand the context. After the war, we had dozens of children from Death Eater families—children whose parents were either dead or in Azkaban. Children who had witnessed unspeakable horrors, sometimes participated in Dark rituals, been exposed to Voldemort himself."
"They were victims," Harry said.
"Of course they were," Kingsley agreed. "But they were also... complicated. Some had been indoctrinated. Others traumatized beyond healing. And all of them needed to be integrated into a society that viewed their very names with suspicion and fear."
"What does this have to do with Travers?"
"Travers worked in the Special Cases division of Child Welfare," Kingsley explained. "Dealing specifically with children from the most prominent Death Eater families. The Carrows. The Rosiers. The younger Lestranges."
Harry frowned. "I didn't know there were any Lestrange children."
"There weren't, officially." Kingsley's gaze was steady. "But that's my point, Harry. The record-keeping during that time was... imperfect. Children were processed quickly, identities sometimes obscured for their own protection."
"Or for the Ministry's convenience," Harry countered.
"Sometimes both." Kingsley didn't deny it. "The goal was to give these children a chance at normal lives, free from the stigma of their family names."
"By erasing who they were?"
"In some cases, yes." The admission hung in the air between them. "But it was done with the best of intentions."
Harry scoffed. "The road to hell, Kingsley."
"It wasn't hell we were trying to build, Harry," Kingsley said sharply. "It was a future where these children wouldn't be punished for their parents' crimes. Where they could grow up without carrying the weight of names like Lestrange or Rosier or Mulciber."
"And who decided which children needed their identities 'protected'?" Harry asked. "Who decided which memories they got to keep?"
A heavy silence fell. Kingsley's lack of immediate denial told Harry everything he needed to know.
"Memory modification," Harry said quietly. "That's what you're talking about, isn't it? The Ministry modified these children's memories."
"In certain extreme cases," Kingsley acknowledged reluctantly. "When trauma was severe. When knowledge of certain Dark magic was deemed too dangerous."
"Who authorized this?" Harry demanded.
"It was a joint decision. The Wizengamot approved the broad strokes of the policy, but the specifics were left to experts in the field—"
"Which experts?"
"Healers. Memory specialists. Former Unspeakables." Kingsley's voice hardened. "People who understood what was at stake, Harry. This wasn't done lightly or carelessly."
"Who knows about this?" Harry asked, still reeling from the revelations. "Do any of the department heads know?"
"Few do," Kingsley admitted. "It was classified at the highest level. Need-to-know only."
Harry ran his hand over his face as he paced the office, trying to process what he was hearing. "So Travers worked with these children. What did he find that got him killed?"
"I don't know," Kingsley said, and despite everything, something in his voice made Harry believe him. "The files from that period are sealed. I could access them, but it would raise flags. Cause questions."
"Questions that need to be asked, apparently," Harry snapped.
"Harry." Kingsley's voice softened. "I understand your anger. But try to see the bigger picture. We were dealing with children who had seen their parents torture and kill, children who had been taught that Muggles were animals to be slaughtered, children who knew the incantations for Unforgivable Curses before they could properly hold a wand."
"I'm not saying there weren't difficult cases," Harry conceded, his voice scratchy. "But memory modification? On children? That's crossing a line, Kingsley."
"The line between right and wrong was never clear after the war," Kingsley said quietly. "We did what we thought necessary to build a lasting peace."
"And now someone is killing to protect those secrets."
Kingsley nodded grimly. "It would seem so. Which is why you need to tread carefully, Harry. If Travers discovered something, if he threatened to expose aspects of the program that were meant to remain classified..."
"That doesn't justify murder."
"Of course not. But it explains the stakes." Kingsley pulled a blank piece of parchment toward him and began writing. "I'll authorize a limited investigation—just you and your most trusted team members. No official record, no department-wide briefings."
"That's not enough," Harry protested. "I need access to those sealed files, Kingsley. I need to know what Travers knew."
"The files will take time," Kingsley said. "There are magical protections beyond even my immediate authority. Ministry safeguards put in place specifically to prevent hasty access, even from the Minister himself."
"People could die while we wait for bureaucracy," Harry countered irritably.
"Then focus on what you can access now," Kingsley advised, still writing. "Travers' personal effects. His colleagues. His movements in the days before his death." He signed the parchment with a flourish and sealed it with his wand. "This gives you authority to question anyone in Child Welfare without departmental approval. But be discreet, Harry. If whoever killed Travers believes they're about to be exposed..."
"They might destroy evidence," Harry finished. "Or kill again."
"Exactly." Kingsley handed him the sealed parchment. "I'll expedite the process for the sealed files. But it will still take a few days at minimum."
Harry took the authorization, dissatisfaction evident in his expression. "What about other patients of Healer Greengrass? Travers can't have been the only one from that department seeking help."
A flicker of something—concern? alarm?—crossed Kingsley's face. "You believe there are others?"
"She hinted as much," Harry said. "Said if she were investigating, she'd look at the entire department."
Kingsley frowned. "Healer-patient confidentiality would prevent her from giving you names."
"Unless I had ministerial authorization." Harry looked pointedly at the Minister.
"That's dangerous territory, Harry," Kingsley warned. "If we start overriding healer confidentiality, even for investigations..."
"A man is dead," Harry repeated. "Murdered for what he knew about ministry activities involving children."
They stared at each other across the desk, neither willing to back down. Finally, Kingsley sighed.
"I'll draft a limited authorization," he said. "For Greengrass only, and only regarding patients from Child Welfare who might be in immediate danger. She doesn't have to disclose the content of their sessions—just their names and any immediate threats she believes they face."
"Thank you." Harry tucked the first authorization into his robes.
"Harry," Kingsley called as he turned to leave. "Whatever you find... remember that we were all doing our best in impossible circumstances. Even decisions that look unforgivable in hindsight were made with the intention of healing a broken society."
Harry paused at the door. "The problem with secrets, Minister, is that they never stay buried forever. And the longer they're hidden, the more damage they do when they finally come to light."
Without waiting for a response, he left the Minister's office, shutting the door firmly behind him.
The Ministry atrium was unusually quiet for a weekday afternoon. A few witches and wizards hurried across the polished floor, their footsteps echoing against the high ceiling, but the usual bustle was absent. As Harry made his way toward the exit, he couldn't shake the feeling that Kingsley was holding something back—something more specific than generalized concerns about post-war policies.
He was halfway to the Apparition point when his Auror medallion—a small gold disc worn beneath his robes—grew suddenly hot against his chest. He pulled it out to find pulsing red letters etched into its surface:
EMERGENCY. IMMEDIATE AUROR RESPONSE REQUIRED.
APPARITION COORDINATES: 5133'51.3"N 010'05.4"W
Below the coordinates was a familiar authorization code—one used only for cases involving suspected Dark magic.
Harry sighed, tilting his head back to stare at the peacock-blue ceiling of the atrium. Another crime scene, another crisis requiring immediate attention. His conversation with Kingsley would have to wait.
Stepping into one of the designated Apparition zones, he focused on the coordinates, turned sharply, and disappeared with a crack.
-Break-
The world compressed and then expanded around him as Harry materialized on a quiet residential street in what appeared to be Hampstead. Rain fell in a steady drizzle, soaking through his Auror robes almost immediately. He cast a quick water-repelling charm, blinking as he oriented himself.
He stood before a modest stone cottage with a neat garden and a low fence where unusual silver flowers trembled despite the lack of wind. The front door was open, and pulsing magical barriers—the standard Auror containment spells—shimmered around the property's perimeter.
Drawing his wand, Harry approached the barrier. It recognized his magical signature and parted to allow him through. As he walked up the garden path, he noticed subtle signs of disturbance—trampled flowerbeds, a knocked-over garden gnome (the non-magical decorative kind).
Signs of a struggle? Or just the result of Aurors securing the scene?
The cottage's interior was dimly lit, but Harry could make out the glow of wandlight coming from somewhere below ground level. He followed it through the entryway and a small study—noting the scattered papers and broken teacup—to a narrow hallway where a heavy door stood open, revealing a staircase leading down.
"Hello?" he called, keeping his wand ready. "Auror Department."
A familiar voice answered from below. "Down here, Potter."
Harry descended cautiously, the temperature dropping with each step. The basement was unexpectedly large—magically expanded beyond the cottage's natural footprint. Unlike the cozy rooms above, this space was stark and functional: stone walls, concrete floor, harsh magical lighting that cast everything in a blue-white glow.
And in the center of the room, a body lay spread-eagled on the floor.
But it wasn't the body that first caught Harry's attention. It was Daphne Greengrass, standing perfectly still a few feet away, her wand arm trembling slightly as she maintained a precise containment charm around the scene. Her face was ashen, her eyes wide with shock.
"Greengrass?" Harry moved toward her. "What are you doing here? Who authorized your—"
"I'm the one who sent the summons," she interrupted, her voice remarkably steady despite her pale complexion. "I found him."
Harry turned to properly examine the scene. The dead man—whom he now recognized as Morgan Pierce from his files—lay on his back, his arms and legs outstretched. His eyes were open but clouded, his mouth frozen in what might have been a scream. Unlike Travers, whose death had been messy, this looked almost ceremonial.
Most disturbing were the marks on Pierce's wrists and ankles—raised welts in perfect circles, the distinctive scarring left by magical suppression restraints. And beneath him, burned into the concrete floor, was a rune Harry had seen before—the same symbol that had been spotted by Ellis Travers' crime scene.
"How did you find him?" Harry asked, moving carefully around the body to examine it from different angles.
"He was my patient," Daphne replied. "He left my office in a panic this morning. After you told me about Travers, I became concerned and came to check on him."
Harry gave her a sharp look. "You should have contacted the Auror Department first."
"I did," she said pointedly. "As soon as I found him."
"After entering a potential crime scene alone," Harry countered.
"I'm a Healer," she said simply. "I thought he might need help."
Before Harry could respond, hurried footsteps on the stairs announced the arrival of more Aurors. Three crimson-robed figures entered the basement, wands drawn.
"Secure the perimeter," Harry ordered automatically. "Full magical signature sweep of the property. And get me a Dark magic detector down here."
As the team spread out, following his instructions with practiced efficiency, Harry turned back to Daphne. "How much have you touched down here?"
"Nothing," she said. "I cast detection spells from the doorway, confirmed he was dead, then established the containment field and sent for you."
Harry nodded, impressed despite himself. Most civilians would have rushed to help, contaminating the scene. "Did he tell you why he was frightened this morning?"
Daphne hesitated, clearly weighing her professional obligations against the circumstances. "He was my patient, Potter. There are limits to what I can share."
"A ministerial override would change that," Harry said, pulling out the authorization Kingsley had signed. "This gives me the right to question you about any patients from the Department of Magical Child Welfare who might be in danger."
Daphne took the parchment, examining its official seals with a careful eye. "This is highly irregular."
"So is finding two of your patients murdered within twenty-four hours," Harry replied. "Both from the same Ministry department, both showing signs of the same ritualistic killing method."
She handed the authorization back, her expression troubled. "Pierce was increasingly paranoid about 'someone from the old days' finding him. He believed he was being watched, that his memories were being monitored."
"Monitored how?"
"He described it as 'echoes'—fragments of memory that didn't feel like his own, superimposed over his actual recollections." She gestured to the body. "When I attempted a therapeutic Legilimency session this morning, I found evidence of extensive memory modification—far beyond standard Ministry security protocols."
Harry crouched beside the body, careful not to disturb the scene. "Like someone had been extracting and replacing memories repeatedly?"
"More sophisticated than that," Daphne said. "It looked like compartmentalization—artificial barriers within his mind, separating certain memories from others. As if parts of his consciousness were being... quarantined."
"Why would someone do that?"
"To allow access to specific memories without exposing others." Daphne moved closer, kneeling across from Harry to examine the body. "It's a technique sometimes used in traumatic memory processing—isolating painful memories until the patient is ready to integrate them. But this was different. Surgical. Precise."
One of the Aurors approached, holding a specialized instrument that resembled a silver tuning fork with a crystal embedded at its junction. "Dark magic detector, sir."
Harry took it and held it over Pierce's body. The crystal immediately blazed with violent purple light, vibrating so intensely that Harry nearly dropped the instrument.
"Off the scales," he muttered. "Just like Travers."
"There's something else," Daphne said quietly. "Pierce worked with orphaned children after the war, particularly those from Death Eater families. He was part of a specialized team that processed and placed them."
Harry looked up sharply. "How do you know that?"
"He mentioned it in our sessions. It was a source of significant anxiety for him—something about 'the program' and decisions made that he regretted."
"The program?" Harry repeated, remembering Kingsley's careful evasions. "Did he elaborate?"
"Not directly," Daphne said. "Patient confidentiality meant he was careful about specifics. But he did mention a facility called Halcyon House several times. From context, I understood it to be some kind of residence for these children."
Harry committed the name to memory. "Anything else?"
Daphne seemed to struggle with herself before answering. "He was terrified of someone finding out that he'd been seeing me. Not just professional discretion—real fear. He believed that if certain people knew he was working with a Mind Healer who specialized in memory recovery, he would be 'eliminated.'"
"And he was right," Harry said grimly, rising to his feet.
The other Aurors had completed their initial sweep and were now methodically documenting the scene—photographing the body from multiple angles, collecting magical residue samples, and mapping the flow of spell energy through the room.
"Sir," one called from the far corner. "You need to see this."
Harry crossed to where the young Auror stood before what appeared to be an ordinary storage cabinet. But as Harry approached, he felt the distinct ripple of powerful concealment magic.
"Good catch, Jensen," he said, drawing his wand again. "Stand back."
Carefully, he began to dismantle the concealment charms, layer by layer. It took several minutes of intense concentration—whoever had cast these spells was exceptionally skilled—but finally, the cabinet shimmered and transformed, revealing its true nature: a small, silver Pensieve set within an elaborate containment unit.
"Evidence kit," Harry ordered, and another Auror quickly handed him a specialized container designed for collecting memory strands. With practiced movements, Harry extracted the swirling silver-blue contents of the Pensieve, carefully transferring them to the magically sealed vial.
"Get this to the Department immediately," he instructed, handing it to Jensen. "Full analysis, highest priority. And this doesn't go into general evidence—secure it in my office, authorization level omega."
As Jensen departed with the memories, Harry turned back to where Daphne still knelt beside Pierce's body, her expression troubled.
"You need to tell me about any other patients you have from Child Welfare," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "Anyone else who might be in danger."
"I can't give you names without checking the authorization more thoroughly," she replied. "But I can tell you there are three others who've shown similar patterns of anxiety and memory disturbance."
"Three," Harry echoed. "All with access to whatever this 'program' was?"
"I believe so, yes." Daphne finally stood, looking exhausted. "What happens now?"
"Now we process this scene, then I'll need your formal statement." Harry studied her face, noting the strain around her eyes, the tight control she was maintaining. "Are you alright to continue, or do you need a moment?"
Something like surprise flickered across her features—perhaps at his consideration, or perhaps at her own vulnerability. "I'm fine, Potter. This isn't my first encounter with death."
"No," he agreed quietly, remembering they had both lived through a war that had claimed too many. "But it's different when it's someone you knew. Someone you were trying to help."
For a moment, the professional mask she wore slipped, revealing genuine distress beneath. "He came to me for help, and I failed him. Just like Travers."
"You didn't fail them," Harry said firmly. "Whoever did this—they failed them. And we're going to find them."
The next hour passed in a blur of activity as more Aurors arrived, the scene was fully documented, and Pierce's body was prepared for transport to St. Mungo's morgue. Harry coordinated the investigation with practiced efficiency, assigning tasks and collating information as it came in.
Throughout it all, Daphne remained nearby, answering questions when asked but otherwise keeping a respectful distance from the investigative process. Harry noticed her gaze repeatedly returning to Pierce's study upstairs, where several Aurors were cataloging documents and personal effects.
When the body was finally removed and the immediate scene processing completed, Harry found Daphne standing in the study, her eyes fixed on the desk where papers still lay scattered.
"I'll need your formal statement now," he said, approaching her. "We can do it here, or at the Ministry if you prefer."
"Here is fine," she replied, not looking at him. "I've arranged coverage for my patients for the rest of the day."
As Harry conjured a chair for her and prepared his official statement parchment, he watched her surreptitiously. She seemed distracted, her attention repeatedly drawn to a particular area of the desk. Following her gaze, he noticed nothing obvious—just stacks of ministry forms, a few personal letters, a small wooden box.
"Whenever you're ready," he prompted gently.
Daphne recounted the morning's events with clinical precision—her session with Pierce, his agitated state, and his hasty departure. She described finding his appointment book left behind, her decision to return it personally, her arrival at the cottage, and the discovery of his body.
"And you didn't touch anything?" Harry confirmed, his quill hovering above the parchment.
"Nothing," she repeated. "As I told you, I cast detection spells from the doorway, confirmed death, established containment, and sent for help."
Harry nodded, making a final note. "Thank you, Healer Greengrass. That's all for now, but we may have additional questions as the investigation progresses."
"Of course." She rose from her chair, gathering her cloak which had been draped over the back. As she did so, Harry distinctly saw her hand brush across the desk and something small disappear into her pocket.
He pretended not to notice, instead focusing on signing and sealing her statement. "You're free to go. One of my Aurors can escort you back to St. Mungo's if you'd prefer not to apparate after such a shock."
"That won't be necessary," she said, already moving toward the door. "I'm perfectly capable of getting myself home."
Harry nodded, maintaining his professional demeanor. "Then good evening, Healer Greengrass. We'll be in touch."
She gave him a final, evaluating look, then departed without another word. Harry waited until he heard the front door close, then turned to the nearest Auror.
"Continue processing the scene," he instructed. "I need to check something. Back in thirty minutes."
Without waiting for acknowledgment, he strode from the study and out of the cottage. The rain had stopped, leaving the garden glistening in the fading evening light. In the distance, he could see Daphne's figure moving swiftly down the lane, her dark cloak billowing behind her.
Making his decision, Harry disillusioned himself with a quick tap of his wand and followed.
She moved with purpose, not looking back, her stride confident despite the day's traumatic events. At the end of the lane, she turned not toward the main road where one might expect to find a suitable Apparition point, but onto a smaller path that wound toward the Heath.
Harry maintained his distance, moving silently thanks to years of Auror training. After several minutes of walking, Daphne reached a small, secluded clearing surrounded by ancient oak trees. It was quite a natural privacy screen. She paused, glancing around as if checking for observers, and once she was certain there was no one around, she withdrew whatever she had taken from Pierce's desk.
Harry moved closer, careful to avoid stepping on fallen twigs or rustling leaves. From his new vantage point, he could see that she held what appeared to be a photograph, studying it intently in the fading light.
He deliberated for only a moment before making his decision. With a whispered counter-spell, he dropped his disillusionment charm and stepped into the clearing.
"I could arrest you for tampering with evidence at a crime scene," he said quietly.
To her credit, Daphne didn't startle or try to hide the photograph. She simply turned to face him, her expression resigned.
"I wondered if you'd noticed," she said.
"I'm an Auror," Harry replied simply. "It's my job to notice."
She studied him for a moment, seeming to weigh her options. "Are you going to arrest me?"
"That depends," he said, moving closer, "on what you took and why."
With a sigh, Daphne extended her hand, offering him the photograph. "It's not evidence of the murder. It's evidence of why the murder happened."
Harry took the photo, examining it carefully. It showed a group of children—perhaps a dozen in total, ranging from maybe six to eleven years old—standing in a sunlit garden. Behind them loomed an impressive Georgian manor house, its façade almost obscured by ivy and climbing roses. A carved wooden sign in the foreground identified the property as "Halcyon House." And there, worked subtly into the ironwork of the garden gate, was the same rune that had been burned into the floor beneath Pierce's body and carved into the stone beside Travers' corpse.
"What is this place?" Harry asked, though he was beginning to form his own suspicions.
"I believe it's where 'the program' was housed," Daphne said quietly. "Where Pierce and Travers worked with these children—orphans from Death Eater families. And I believe whatever happened there is what got them killed."
Harry looked from the photograph to Daphne's face, seeing determination mingled with fear in her eyes. "Why take this? Why not just tell me about it?"
"Because I wasn't sure I could trust you," she admitted frankly. "Not with this. Not after what Pierce told me about Ministry involvement."
The words hung between them in the gathering darkness of the clearing. Harry felt the weight of what she was implying—that whatever had happened at Halcyon House, the Ministry itself might be complicit. Kingsley's warnings echoed in his mind: decisions made in desperate times, pragmatic choices, things better left buried.
"And now?" he asked. "Do you trust me now?"
Daphne met his gaze directly, evaluating him with that same clear-eyed assessment he remembered from their brief exchange at St. Mungo's. "I'm not sure," she said finally. "But I think those children deserve the truth. And I think you might actually care about finding it, regardless of where it leads."
Harry looked down at the photograph again, at the solemn faces of children who had already lost everything in a war they were too young to understand. Children who, according to Kingsley, had been subjected to memory modification 'for their own good.'
Children whose very identities might have been erased by the institution that was supposed to protect them.
"You're right," he said quietly. "I do care about the truth. No matter what it costs, no matter who it implicates." He handed the photograph back to her. "Even if it's the Ministry itself."
Surprise flickered across Daphne's features. "You're not confiscating it as evidence?"
"Not yet," Harry said. "First, I want to hear everything you know about Halcyon House and these children. Everything Pierce and Travers told you, everything you've pieced together. And then we're going to find this place and figure out what happened there."
"We?" she repeated, arching one perfect eyebrow.
"We," Harry confirmed. "Unless you'd prefer to investigate two murders and a potential Ministry conspiracy on your own?"
A ghost of a smile touched Daphne's lips—the first he'd seen from her. "When you put it that way, Potter, I suppose I could use an Auror's perspective." She tucked the photograph carefully back into her pocket. "Though I should warn you—digging into this will make us both targets."
"Wouldn't be the first time," Harry said with a grim smile of his own.
TBC.
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