Chapter 8 Headlines and photographs

Harry reached across the breakfast table to grab at the fresh from the press issue of the Daily Prophet. He'd made it his morning routine to peruse it thoroughly in the ridiculous hope of finding a hint of Hermione's murderer. The first two pages contained information that in no way could have engaged his attention. He turned the page. An old lady, who seemed oddly familiar, smiled and waved at him from a huge black and white photograph. His eyes landed on the headline.

A foundation for peace- Chief executive officer of Caldwell healing elixirs Empire initiates James Caldwell trust

London- At this year's company anniversary John Caldwell, founder and chief executive officer of the Caldwell healing elixirs Empire, announced the foundation of a trust whose chairmanship he intends to share with his wife, Geillis Caldwell. The trust aims at attending to the interests of victims and the bereaved of the second wizarding war.

"We all should bear in mind that further consequences of this war await us. Children who will grow up without their parents. People searching for their relatives, trauma patients and war invalids. The list of those suffering although the war is over is long. We owe it to these people to support them. It's society's duty to not only perpetuate the memory of the immediate victims, but also to support those who are still alive. We have to take a stand for the welfare of our fellow men whose suffering isn't over!", he professed during his speech about the trust's aims in the long term. Caldwell, who had become famous for his direct marketing of special healing elixirs, especially in the field of neuro medicine, during the 1960s unfortunately lost his second eldest son in the aftermath of the second wizarding war. The trust which bears his name will hopefully…

Harry skimmed the rest of the article. His gaze began to linger on the photograph once more. The caption revealed that the waving lady had to be Caldwells wife Geillis. Next to her stood an elderly man to whom the caption refered to as John Caldwell. By now Harry was quite sure that the had recognised the lady as the woman he had met at the cemetery. The very same that had talked with Draco while the ferret shed some crocodile tears. Caldwell… The name was familiar. He'd already come across healing elixirs of this branch for a few times. The majority of the commercial consumers were healers and hospitals, but you could buy a smaller selection of the product range on presentation of a receipt at some pharmacies in Diagon Alley. But how in god's name had Geillis Caldwell found the time to make the acquaintance of the Grangers and their daughter? The Caldwells were known for spending most of their time in London or their hometown which was nowhere near the Granger's home. He deemed it highly improbable that the Caldwell's had been paying visits to the Granger's neighbourhood on a whim. Geillis had claimed to have seen Hermione grow up. How could this be? She wasn't a squib like Mrs. Fig who had been ordered to guard him. Harry scrunched up his nose and frowned. Something fishy was going on.

In the afternoon he contacted Arthur Weasley and asked him to find out whether the Caldwells had ever lived in the Granger's neighbourhood. It didn't take long, and he got his answer. The Caldwells had indeed been living for about 15 years next door but one from the Granger's house. It was strange, for as fas as he knew the Caldwells owned a large estate in Wiltshire. Somehow he just wasn't able to imagine John Caldwell living in a tiny town house surrounded by muggles when he had huge premises with a semi-palace at his disposal. So why should they have moved there? Harry groaned. Was he about to become as paranoid as he had been during his sixth year at Hogwarts where he'd recognised every evil dead as carrying Draco Malfoy's thumbprint? Well, his instincts hadn't fooled him in the end, but, nonetheless…

He hesitated to just go and contact Geillis Caldwell. How could it be of any use to ask an old lady about a girl whose neighbour she'd been? Geillis would be precious little help to him at finding Hermione's murderer. He cupped his chin with his hands. Maybe he should consult his pillow before making a decision? He either found a hint, or he had to start anew. Whatever the circumstances were, he wasn't about to give up. Even if the murderer was long gone, Harry Potter wouldn't stop searching for him until he came out of hiding.

Wiltshire, February 1999

For as long as he could remember he had shared the premises of the huge manor with his father. One half had been his, the others his father's. When his father had died after a long and severe illness, his rooms had remained untouched. Lucius hadn't wanted to invade his personal space so soon after his death. It just hadn't sat right with him to look through his belongings before the mourning period was over, but the moment he'd plucked up the courage to face this task it had already been too late for its execution. His participation in the battle at the ministry had cost him dearly. He was sentenced, declared an outlaw and brought to Azkaban. After that he'd had even less time to take care of his late father's estate. The war had begun and he'd been too much of a coward to cop out. Now that the war was over and he had accepted his role as the loser of the battle, he could finally do his duty.

The heavy bunch of keys rattled in his hands as he opened the huge double doors to his father's abode. For two long years, not a single living soul, had come here. Not even the house elves had been granted access to the deceased's rooms. Consequentially, the layer of dust on the black deck boards of the hallway was quite high. Lucius had to admit that he hadn't often visited his father, even though they had lived in the same house. In his old age the man had become quite eccentric, he didn't want to receive any of his old acquaintances and the only time he kept company with his family was during dinner. When he suddenly got ill, they had relocated him to St. Mungo's because that was the only place where he could get the right treatment and where his chances of recovery were high enough. Well, that's what they thought. Abraxas deterioration couldn't be stopped. He became weaker, prone to illnesses, and as it became apparent that there was no hope left because of his father's general condition, Lucius had tried to spent most of his free time sitting next to his fathers sickbed, trying to say farewell without sounding too grief-stricken.

Carefully he paced through the rooms, examining what objects had accumulated during the past decades. Most of it could be turned into money which his family was in dire need of. The war had cost them more than just their honour. Lucius stopped in front of a locked door at the end of the hallway. For as long as he could remember this room had been off limits to him. Since he knew fairly well how his father reacted to people who ignored his bans he'd never dared to even look into the room.

And now he stood there, still hesitating, in front of the big mahogany door with the beautiful inlaid work.

"He's dead. He can't exactly put you over your knee anymore!", he encouraged himself. The key unlocked the door, and it burst open. The room was pitch-black. His father must have drawn the curtains close the last time he had used it. Lucius brandished his wand and the curtains parted with a rattling noise. Upon first inspection the room looked quite unimpressive, and Lucius felt disappointment surging up within him.

Over the course of decades, he had dreamed of hidden treasures, too valuable to show them to curious eyes. Instead of treasures he just caught sight of a bureau in front of a row of windows and several photographs that showed his father during his teenage years. The latter was quite interesting. Abraxas had hated it whenever someone tried to take a photo of him, which had resulted in the existence of only a few photographs Lucuis could remember. He stepped forward, very much interested. Some of the photos had been taken at this manor. He recognized his grandfather in one of the smaller photos. A proud, tall man, posing stiffly and emotionless in front of the fireplace in the parlour downstairs.

Another photo showed Abraxas as a teenager, sitting on a horse. The corners of Luciu's mouth twitched.

He knew his father hadn't been a big fan of horses, and that he had even refused to buy his only son one. But it seemed that his grandfather had demanded that Abraxas went for a ride regularly.

"A Malfoy without a horse!", so his saying went, "is only half a Malfoy!"

Well, it seemed that his father was quite happy with being only half a Malfoy after his father had died. It hadn't discredited him. Attached to the lower frame of a huge photograph there was a silver badge which read in battered types:

Christmas 1943, Crosswood Grange

Lucius took a few steps back to look at the photo in its entirety.

His father stood in front of a huge, opulently decorated Christmas tree. He was laughing and slapping the shoulder of his partner. If he didn't err the young and handsome boy standing next to his father had to be Alphard Black. The man who had betrayed his whole family and turned his back on them. The same way his ne'er- do- well nephew Sirius had.

On his left side Lucius spotted a young woman, about Draco's age. She was looking at the camera with a happy smile before throwing a glance at Abraxas, raising a brow because of his obvious good mood.

He recognized some Lestrange family members as well as a young Cygnus Black. Next to the big photograph hung a smaller one. The badge revealed to him that it had not only been taken on the same day, but also the young woman's name who, in this photograph, was dancing with his father.

Gillian Warrington.

The name was familiar.

He'd heard it before.

Lost in thought he stroked his chin with his right hand. And then it struck him right away!

Of course!

He had just begun his first year at Hogwarts when the Daily Prophet issued a report on her. Gillian had already been missing for years by then. One day, during a cold winter's night, the single heir to the house of Warrington had made a hasty departure and vanished without a trace. It was a mystery, that, although thorough investigations had been carried out, had never been solved. A mystery that had captured his interest at the age of eleven.

He glanced at the photograph again. There was something oddly familiar in the way Warrington looked. He frowned. This image of a perfect pure blood woman was faintly reminiscent of someone he knew. He rubbed his chin tensely and racked his brain.

Damn it! He was sure he'd seen her before, and he was dead certain that this feeling had nothing to do with his memory of the Daily Prophet's report on Gillian Warrington.