Three figures appeared out of thin air in front of a red brick Victorian building in South Kensington with a loud pop, startling a couple of pigeons. Even the birds strolling along the pavement had a stately air about them, befitting the general atmosphere of the neighbourhood.
"Won't Muggles notice us apparating in full view?" Harry asked, looking around.
"Pfft," Draco Malfoy scoffed. "As if Muggles ever noticed anything."
"There are mild Muggle-Repelling Charms over the area," said Astoria. "The couple living on the ground floor are squibs, and the neighbours on the left are some Middle Eastern magnates; they are never there."
Together, they went up to the stylish penthouse. The hall was spacious and bare. The living room looked like it belonged on the cover of some interior design magazine. The walls and furniture came in shades of white, contrasting with the dark wood of the parquet floors and decorative panels. A dark red cloak laid spread across an ivory-coloured velvet chaise longue like a stain of blood. Something about the decor reminded Harry of Grimmauld Place as it used to be: snake wallpapers and the troll leg umbrella stand. Despite looking nothing alike, the place felt just as welcoming.
"Astoria, darling, back so soon with young Draco? And who else have you got there?"
Startled, Harry reached for his wand, but the voice wasn't coming from a person. Or, at least, not from a person in the flesh. On the mantelpiece, there was a portrait of a handsome young wizard in a large powdered wig, his lips so red it had to be lipstick. He was lounging at a desk with a stack of parchments and an inkwell on it.
"Good afternoon, Benedict, meet Harry Potter. Harry, let me introduce you to Benedict Greengrass, editor of the society pages of the Daily Prophet throughout the 18th century."
"Only since 1754, my dear, I'm not that old," said Benedict. He turned his head to Harry and gave him an assessing look. "Harry Potter. I knew one Henry Potter in my days. Looked very much like you, except for the eyes. Jolly good chap, even though he did steal my fiancé from me. I hope you didn't set your sights on our beautiful Astoria here, did you?" He wagged his finger at Harry in warning.
"You'd better not, Potter" Malfoy warned, putting a proprietary arm around Astoria's shoulders.
"I'm gay, remember? And happily in a relationship. Sorry, Astoria."
"And how did that fucking happen, I'll never understand," Malfoy grumbled under his breath, earning himself a reproachful look from Astoria.
"You are here all the time, right?" Harry asked Benedict. A magical portrait was an unexpected boon since those could be fonts of information. "Can you tell me about the night of Daphne's death?"
"Horrible, horrible tragedy! Such a bright candle cruelly snuffed, a beautiful rose cut before she had a chance to bloom!" Benedict cried. "I've always viewed Daphne as my student and spiritual successor. So talented, ever since she was but a girl. We would chat for hours, and I was her trusted confidant." He dabbed at his eyes with a lace handkerchief. "But yes, that fateful night. I'll tell you if it's all right with the family." He glanced at Astoria inquiringly.
"Please tell Harry everything you can about Daphne," said Astoria. "We hired him to investigate whatever was happening in her life to lead her to drink an illegal and dangerous anti-Obliviation potion."
"I understand. Daphne mentioned you, dear Mr. Potter, or may I call you Harry? You're a gentleman detective now, aren't you?"
Malfoy snickered.
"Something like that," Harry said. He'd been called many things, and this was far from the most ridiculous one. "Now, can you—"
"Yes, of course. The tragedy." Benedict drew himself together, interlacing his fingers over the parchment. "Daphne came home just before midnight, very distraught. She had that damned vial in her hand, and I got a feeling of deep foreboding in my bones, even though as a portrait I don't exactly have those anymore."
Harry hummed. The portrait loved the sound of his voice, playing it up for the audience.
"I asked her what that was, but she ignored me and retired to her bedroom. There were sounds of her pacing, then of glass shattering, and then a scream and that horrible choking sound, the sound I can still hear in my mind!"
Astoria flinched, and Malfoy hugged her again.
"You don't have to be here if it's hard for you, Torie," he said with gentleness Harry had never heard from him before. "I can keep Potter in check myself."
"No, no. I'm fine, darling."
"I didn't want to trouble your parents unduly, Astoria, my poor girl, but I was worried beyond reason." Benedict continued. "So I popped to the Greengrass Manor—I have another portrait there, you see, of me as a little boy. Cordelia and Mortimer had already retired for the night, but I made quite a racquet. Alas, when Cordelia finally came through, it was too late." He shook his head despondently.
"Tell me what was happening in Daphne's life before the accident," asked Harry. "Did she mention anything that troubled her? Was there anything unusual in her behaviour?"
"She was rarely home lately, and always looked tired when she did. I thought that she was busy with preparations for the impending Fashion Week. She was preparing a special project for that, you see. But now that I think of it, it couldn't be the only reason. She was unusually irritable and short with me over the last week, but I attributed that to that Goldstein boy breaking off their engagement." Benedict pronounced the name as if it was a curse word.
"She and Anthony broke up?" Astoria asked in surprise. "She didn't say anything, neither to me nor to Mother and Father. Anthony himself certainly never mentioned that little fact at the funeral."
"Oh, they did. Quite a scene it was; feeble excuses and curses flying, not that I blame the poor girl. That good-for-nothing halfwit turned up here, some days before Daphne's untimely death, to say that he found himself some wench and return the ring. Why would you look elsewhere if you had a woman like Daphne on your arm?" He raised his eyes heavenwards and paused as if expecting an answer from there. "Incomprehensible."
"Did they ever have big arguments?"
While relationship drama was Pansy's speciality, Harry had his share of cases where people smoothed conflicts with the liberal use of memory charms. Cheaters, gamblers, addicts who got caught red-handed and preferred to make their spouses or parents forget about the situation rather than deal with the consequences.
"Oh no, they never quarrelled at all, from what I've seen. Although he barely showed his face here this last year. I guess I see why Daphne would think he's good husband material, but the man is such a bore with no imagination."
Harry wracked his brain to remember anything concrete about Goldstein. He used to be a member of the D.A., a shy and nerdy boy who couldn't produce a corporeal Patronus when Harry taught it in their fifth year. Nothing else came to mind. Not for the first time, he wondered if he should have socialised more during his Hogwarts years.
"Goldstein works for Goldstein, Goldstein & Young. Audits, taxes and financial advice," Malfoy supplied. "Pompous twat." As if he of all people had the right to call other people that.
"Anthony is all right, if a bit dull." Astoria was much more diplomatic. "He has been working between London and their New York headquarters, though. The distance might have put a strain on the relationship."
"I'd never have thought he had it in him to leave Daphne. Such a golden boy who could do no wrong in the eyes of the future in-laws." From the poison in Malfoy's voice, Harry could guess that it was not the case for Draco himself. "And to think, he had no scruples whatsoever about Cordelia fussing over him at the wake."
"The wiles of whatever Mudblood that had led him astray must have waned over the week."
"We don't use that word anymore, Benedict." Astoria chided.
"What, 'wiles'? It means—"
"Benedict."
"Twenty-first century," the portrait huffed.
"Who else visited Daphne lately?" asked Harry. It was high time to return the conversation back on track. Casual blood purism was still very much a thing among pureblood families; more so when they thought they were in the circle of like-minded individuals. He was more surprised that Malfoy restrained himself to one quiet, almost guilty snort instead of full-blown laughter.
"Not many. She didn't have a party here in ages. That Irish chap from the wireless—Lee, I think is the name—flooed once or twice about her programme," said Benedict. "She also had her childhood friend of hers over, but it was around three months ago. Then the girl left for the Americas again."
"It must be Davis; she lives in Canada now. Left Britain after our sixth year," Malfoy explained.
"Thank you, Benedict. You've been very helpful. I'll probably have some follow-up questions later, but now I'd like to search the flat," said Harry. He looked at Astoria questioningly. He'd prefer to do that alone, without the Ferret looming over his shoulder, but needs must.
"Go ahead."
The living room held nothing of interest, looking more like designer showpiece than a space that had ever been in use. Even the stack of magazines on the coffee table looked as if they were there for decoration. The hall was similarly bare, with the only personal thing there being Daphne's purse. Except for some tissues and make-up, it held only a galleon bag full of gold and, surprisingly, a muggle credit card.
In contrast, the study was a different realm. Robes, pieces of fabric and magazines littered almost every available surface. A spacious mahogany desk was overflowing with parchment, notebooks, photos and sketches, some of them moving and some of them not, all in a jumble. Harry fished out Daphne's planner and thumbed through it before putting in his pocket.
Beside owl treats and vials of the Pepper-Up-Plus, drawers were chock-full of photos and correspondence. Unfortunately, the latter revealed nothing of value. Adverts, letters from fans, offers to endorse this or that product, bank statements, invitations to this or that party or event: it was startlingly similar to the mail Harry still received on a regular basis. Harry shrunk everything and added to the planner, followed by a thick letter from Tracey Davis. On the first glance, it seemed to be all about her pregnancy, in far more detail than Harry ever wanted to know. It was the only piece of personal correspondence in the pile.
The liquor cabinet behind the desk was stocked exceedingly well with both wizarding and muggle booze. Malfoy helped himself to a generous serving of Ogden's with ice cubes from an enchanted icebox and poured Astoria some citrusy liqueur.
"A drink?" he offered belatedly, good manners winning the battle over the entrenched animosity.
Harry declined. Even Malfoy's presence wouldn't drive him to getting pissed on the job; however tempting the prospect might be.
An abstract wizarding painting—moving black lines and changing geometric shapes of different colours—hid a poorly warded safe. There were stacks of galleons and pounds as well as more potions inside, this time not so easily identifiable. Hopefully, Severus would make sense of them. There was also a folder with sketches of women in extravagant gowns. Wings, scaly dresses fit like a glove, furry overcoats; one model had a hippogriff skull headpiece. Magical beasts and creatures seemed to be the theme of the collection.
Astoria furrowed her brow, looking through them, and closed her eyes for a moment. Harry threw her a questioning look.
"These must be Daphne's sketches. I didn't know she was working on her own designs."
The bookshelves held old fashion magazines, art books, and crime novels, muggle and wizarding in equal proportion. Harry opened an Agatha Christie at random and a photo slipped from between the pages. Two little girls, one blonde and one brown-haired, smiled toothily at the camera in front of a big layered cake.
"My eighth birthday," Astoria said from behind his shoulder before turning abruptly to the window.
Next was the bedroom dominated with a queen-sized bed with a canopy. Large pictures of Daphne from a professional photoshoot covered one of the walls: black and white with splashes of red from her lipstick and dress. She looked sexy and aloof with her pouty lips and faraway stare. The photos were magical, for her hair and dress fluttered as if in the wind, but she herself didn't interact with the camera, frozen in time.
There were two more photos on the dresser, very different from those on the wall. On the first one, Daphne—no older than fifteen—was braiding Tracey Davis's hair in the Slytherin common room. Both girls were smiling, unaware of being photographed. Suddenly, Tracey spotted the photographer and elbowed Daphne, who then threw a cushion at the camera and dissolved into laughter. Harry watched the loop repeating twice before noticing teenage Pansy on the background. His future partner was leaning to Malfoy and whispering something into his ear with the familiar sly expression on her face. The second photo was of Daphne with the woman from the photo Astoria had shown Harry in the restaurant, this time in a different turban and sunglasses. They were at some picturesque waterfront, hugging a palm tree.
Harry did his best to be clinical while examining the insides of the dresser, but couldn't help the furious blush spreading across his face after stumbling across a collection of toys in the bedside table. Astoria sent a spluttering Malfoy out of the room.
He sifted through the jewellery on the vanity, but the onyx necklace Parvati had mentioned earlier wasn't there.
"I happen to know Daphne had bought a necklace shortly before her death, gold with a big oval onyx. Have you seen it, perhaps?"
"No, nothing like that. It doesn't at all sound like something she would choose for herself. She must've bought it as a gift."
Harry didn't know the first thing about jewellery except that lockets and big gaudy rings were to be avoided at all cost, but had to agree with Astoria. It wasn't at all Daphne's style. There were plenty of delicate diamond earrings and dainty gold necklaces, but nothing like the picture Parvati had sent him the day before. The closest thing to it here was a snake bracelet that curled around his wrist as soon as Harry took it, giving him a start. But even this piece with its finely detailed scales and emerald eyes didn't have much in common with the thick solid gold of the chain with a big stone.
The walk-in closet was overflowing with clothes, shoes, and bags. No stretched, washed-out T-shirts or old Hogwarts robes that inhabited Harry's own wardrobe; everything looked fashionable and new. Many pieces had the price tags still attached. It took Harry ages to go through all the pockets and purses. During this time, Malfoy returned to the room, bored and antsy, to comment on Harry's every move. Harry was honestly surprised he had lasted that long.
"Must you check everything by hand like a common Muggle? That's what Accio is for, you know. Have you never used it since that time you were showing off with summoning your broom in our fourth year?" Malfoy started to raise his wand.
"Don't!" Harry stopped him sharply. "I can summon everything from every pocket in one second, sure. But how would I know which pocket each thing came from?"
He fished a flyer out of a hidden pocket of a nondescript black robe. It turned out to be an invite to the club called Dark Desires promising to fulfil your deepest fantasies. Taking one look at the suggestive card, Malfoy fled the room once again, two splotches of pink on his cheeks.
The bathroom had a sleek modern shower stall and a huge marble bath. White cabinets were overflowing with bottles, tubs, jars, and other witch-only items. Harry had only a vague idea of the purpose of many of those. Nothing stood out except for two more Party-Ups, two Patented Daydream Charms from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, and a row of the Hangover Cure vials. Going back to the living room, Harry felt a pang of sadness. For all the glamorous lifestyle of hers, Daphne Greengrass seemed to lead a very lonely existence.
Finished with the search, for now, Harry returned to the portrait. "Can you tell me who came here after Daphne's death?"
"I've only seen family members. And nobody after they took her... the body away, except for you two on Sunday." Benedict looked over to Astoria and Malfoy. "But as I've already told you, I'd spent little time here until then. It was unbearable, being here in the empty apartment and knowing that Daphne would never come here again. So I was mostly at the Manor, even though my portrait there leaves much to be desired, to be perfectly honest. But after your visit, I've been here all the time. Nobody came here."
"Thank you, Benedict. Please keep watch." Astoria nodded to the portrait. She turned to Harry. "Do you need anything else?"
She was eager to leave, although she wasn't as obvious at that as Malfoy, who made a show of taking a pocket watch out of his robes for the third time already. Harry wouldn't be surprised if he transfigured it for this very purpose. Who even carried pocket watches anymore?
"No, I'm finished for now," said Harry.
He had to return soon, if only to question the neighbours, but he would much prefer to do that without an audience.
"Well, that was a Sunday well-spent," Malfoy muttered as they left the building. "At least we can finally present concrete proof that the sun doesn't shine out of Goldstein's—"
Astoria coughed.
"Don't approach Goldstein," Harry warned.
"Do you doubt my ability to make that parchment pusher crack, Potter?" Malfoy's voice rose.
"Malfoy. I don't doubt your abilities to crack anything in the slightest; I know from experience that they exceed expectations. However. I'm a professional. You hired me because of that. Let me do my job." Annoyance bubbled inside Harry. It was just like Malfoy to be difficult.
"We trust you to get to the bottom of this, Harry," Astoria said, putting an appeasing hand on Malfoy's arm.
"I'll contact you if there are any new developments. Until then, please do nothing without consulting with me first," said Harry.
The clients who took initiative were always a pain in the arse. Of course, Malfoy's entire existence was to be just that, so he shouldn't have expected anything different.
"Yes, yes, we got it, Potter. Goodbye already."
The three of them disapparated, watched only by the pigeons on the pavement and a woman in the window of the ground floor.