Goldstein, Goldstein & Young stood right next to Gringotts. You could walk past it twice a day for years and never notice the simple sign plate on the wooden door, so close the wacky and ostentatious architecture of the wizarding bank. Inside, however, the law firm was nothing like on the outside. The reception was all marble and crystal chandeliers. Haughty witches and wizards in formal robes stared down their noses at the visitors from the portraits, and magical windows showed Diagon Alley in London, a skyscraper in New York and a street in Zurich, if the golden plaques with the city names were to be believed.
Harry was shown to Anthony's office by a no-nonsense witch with her hair in a severe bun who reminded him very much of McGonagall. He half expected her to summon P&P Investigative Services's tax statement with corrections made in red ink and give him a piece of her mind about doing his paperwork properly.
Everything in the office, from the enormous dark oak desk to the widow showing London from the bird's eye view, was carefully crafted to convey success and prestige. To Harry's surprise, a computer and a modern office phone cohabitated with a marble abacus floating in the air. Most Ministry officials hadn't discovered television yet.
Anthony Goldstein, in a formal purple robe and already balding, was standing behind his impressive desk, putting scrolls of parchment into a briefcase.
"Harry! What a surprise!" he said with a professional smile. "Please take a seat."
Harry sat down in a leather chair, almost jumping back up when it moulded itself to him, making him settle back and sink deeper. The softness invited the sitter to relax and drop their guard.
He needed a chair like that in his own office. Preferably with a design that didn't scream 'Pretentious Pureblood Prat.'
"Going somewhere?" asked Harry.
"Oh, I'm switching to our New York office for the next six months at least. With what happened to Daphne—" Goldstein glanced away. "I need a change of scenery for the foreseeable future." He shut the briefcase and put it away, sitting down with oddly exaggerated care.
"My condolences."
"Thank you. So if you are here for a big project, such as an audit, I'll refer you to another—"
"No, no, I'm not here for that. I'd like to ask you a couple of questions about Daphne."
"Oh?" The temperature in the room dropped.
"Yes. Astoria hired me because of some new information that's come up."
"Information?"
"Not everything is so clear-cut about the circumstances of your fiancé's death as was previously believed." Harry let his statement hang in the air, fully aware of how ambiguous it sounded. He intended to bait Goldstein a bit. People tended to share more than they otherwise would have and give all sorts of unexpected insights when thrown off-balance.
"So what, I'm a suspect now?" Goldstein's voice rose high.
Well, aren't we nervous?
"Of course not, Anthony. I just wanted to ask you about your last interaction with Daphne. Did she mention anything strange?"
"Not really, no. She didn't mention—Oh, fuck it." Goldstein ran his hand over his face. "You know what? I was in America for two months—during which time we exchanged exactly one owl, writing of nothing in particular: weather, relatives, work—and then we broke up. We broke up a week before her death."
"Astoria didn't mention that." Harry played ignorance.
"Ha! It's not like they ever talked outside family dinners. Always at odds, as long as I can remember. Even back at Hogwarts."
"Really?"
"You bet. The one thing Astoria seemed to be upset about at the funeral was having to reschedule her own wedding."
"You never said anything to the family," Harry said, letting the implied question hang in the air.
"Well, it didn't quite matter anymore, did it? I didn't want to cause more pain to her parents if I could help it. They are good people." Goldstein looked away. "I don't know why she never told them herself. Perhaps she didn't have the time. Or wanted to wait for the right moment. I don't know."
"Maybe she hoped you'd get back together."
"Like hell she did!" he burst out, then shifted in his seat uncomfortably.
"Why? Was she the one to break up with you?"
"No, it was me, actually. We—I've been working in our overseas office more than here for over a year now, and we didn't see or hear from each other for months on end. Don't get me wrong, Daphne was an amazing woman, gorgeous and smart, but it simply wasn't working. I honestly thought she agreed." He fidgeted. "But apparently not, because she didn't take the news well."
"Flock of angry birds in your direction?" Harry asked, remembering Hermione in their sixth year.
"If only. No, it was some nasty curse that was very, very hard to lift." Unattractive blotches of red bloomed on his cheeks.
"When exactly did this happen?"
"June the seventh. The day I returned to London. And afterwards, I was in a private facility in Switzerland, although Daphne's death, naturally, brought my treatment short." Now, even his ears reddened. "I'm only telling you this to dispel any insinuations that I had anything to do with it."
"I'm not suspecting you of anything, Anthony," Harry said in a placating tone. It made Goldstein even more anxious, as it was intended to do. "I only want to find out the truth."
"Yes, well. My alibi is iron-clad, just so you know," he said, as if things like alibi mattered one whit when it came to magic.
Perhaps he shared his ex-fiancé's love for crime novels. On the other hand, the couple didn't seem to share much of anything. Harry glanced at the painting on the wall behind Goldstein's desk. Cypress trees and old ruins; a Merlin-like wizard raising his wand on the hillside. They certainly didn't share a taste in fine arts.
"I realise that it was a private moment, Antony, but could you maybe share the memory of—"
"No!" Goldstein interrupted, shaking his head frantically.
"You do realise that if Aurors get involved, you won't be able to avoid the scandal? No matter how iron-clad your alibi is. They aren't known for respecting people's privacy," Harry pressed.
In truth, the Greengrasses would never go to the DMLE willingly, but Goldstein didn't need to know that.
"Scandal?" Goldstein asked faintly.
Harry nodded. He waited in silence for a moment, letting the hook sink in.
"Fine. Fine!" He conjured a vial and jerked a silver thread out of his temple. "Just so you see for yourself that I didn't do anything to her. Nothing at all!" He made a complicated gesture with his wand before stoppering the vial and handed it to Harry, an air of smugness somewhat back about him. "The memory will self-destruct after the viewing. Our proprietary spell."
"Thank you, Anthony."
He ushered Harry out his office soon after that, mopping his brow with a no doubt monogrammed handkerchief. Harry didn't know what to make of him. Goldstein was acting rather suspiciously, especially in the view of his prompt relocation across the Atlantic. Yet he had valid—if rather selfish—reasons for that. Hopefully, the memory would clear things up a bit.
Back in the office, Pansy was leafing through some sort of an antiques catalogue, thick and colourful. With a tap of her wand, the pieces would pop from the pages to present themselves from all sides.
"Awfully nice of a black market auction to make such professional newsletters," she mused, leaning forward to inspect the three-dimensional image of a grandfather clock. Every so often, the hour face would open, and a tiny ghost with outstretched hands would appear like a cuckoo.
"Look! Isn't it adorable?"
"Will it try to strangle you in your sleep?" After years of sharing the building with a cursebreaking service, one was bound to pick up some patterns.
"Who do you take these honest antique dealers for?" Pansy clasped her hands over her chest in mock offence. "Of course it will."
"Still no book?"
"Nah. But there are a couple of ruby sets Parvati might like."
Harry was starting to suspect Pansy's interest in their former classmate was more than professional. After all, she wasn't in the habit of drinking with just any of her clients or redecorating the office for them. Pansy swung both ways, but she didn't have a meaningful relationship since Malfoy. Maybe this time the crush would lead to something more, and Pansy would finally leave the past behind.
"Shut up, Potter," Pansy said defensively.
"I didn't say anything."
"What do you have there, anyway?" She looked curiously at the vial in his hands.
"Oh, Goldstein shared the memory of breaking up with Greengrass."
"So what are we waiting for?" Pansy rubbed her hands together and summoned the Pensieve.
"Should you watch it? I suspect there's something embarrassing here," said Harry.
And wasn't that exactly the wrong thing to say?
Pansy's eyes lit up. "Two pairs of eyes are always better than one!" She didn't even try not to sound eager.
"Oh, yes?"
"Besides, I'm the soul of discretion, you know that." She mimed sewing her mouth shut. "Bring it on."
Harry poured the memory into their Pensieve and took a plunge into the swirling silvery-white substance, neither liquid nor gas. With a jerk in his navel, his feet left the floor. He fell for a few mad seconds before landing outside the front door to Daphne Greengrass's flat.
To his right, Anthony Goldstein was shifting from foot to foot, raising his hand to the doorbell and lowering it again mid-motion. Pansy appeared on the other side of him as he finally found the courage to ring.
There was a minute before the door opened. During that time, Goldstein visibly fought an urge to leave twice. At last, Daphne Greengrass appeared in a silken house robe with embroidered herons charmed to fly along the hem. Her hair was done perfectly, falling in loose golden curls past her shoulder blades. She had a glass of wine in her hand, even though the sun outside of the window was still in its zenith.
"Tony. What a pleasant surprise, darling."
For a moment, she looked as if it was anything but, before settling into a polite—if not especially warm—smile. Stepping aside, she let Goldstein in and led him into the living room. Harry and Pansy followed.
The room was just as Harry remembered it from his visit the day before, if a bit softer in candlelight.
"Would you like a drink?"
"No, thank you. I—I'd like to talk to you about something, Daphne." Goldstein tugged at the collar of his stuffy robe.
"What is it?" A hint of impatience crept into Daphne's voice.
She turned her back on him, straightening the stack of books and magazines on the coffee table. Beside the bottle of wine standing there as well, it was the only indication that this place was a part of an actual, inhabited flat rather than a showroom.
"I—You know I love you, right?" Goldstein asked, taking a deep breath. Harry watched those familiar spots of pink appear on his pale cheeks.
"I love you too, dear," Daphne said distractedly.
"But I don't think what I—what we both feel for each other is still romantic love, you know what I mean?" Goldstein was slipping a heavy ring on and off his finger now.
Daphne turned to face him, her smooth features showing no indication of her thoughts. "What are you saying?"
"Listen, Daph, you know we haven't seen much of each other for the past months. For the past year, actually." Goldstein was wringing his hands now. "You're an amazing woman, the best, and I'm sure any man would be happy to be with you. But I feel—and you have to agree—that we don't work as a couple anymore." With that, he took off the ring one final time and carefully put it on the mantelpiece between them.
"Good speech. How many times did you rehearse it in front of the mirror?" Daphne's voice sounded calm and derisive. "Who is she?"
"W-what do you mean?"
"Come off it. This union was never about sweeping romance, and it never bothered you before. You're too much of a milksop to break off the engagement without another woman pushing for it."
"It doesn't matter who she is." His chin raised in defiance. "We met through work in America, and she just—She's also from my field, and she gets me, gets me like nobody else."
"What is there to get?" Daphne's upper lip curled. "You've had a gorgeous woman from the cream of the crop of the British pureblood families, and you chose some lowly quill driver instead."
"Katy isn't—Anyway, that's all I wanted to tell you. I'm sorry Daphne, truly, I am."
Eyes downcast, Goldstein turned to leave just as Daphne raised her wand.
"But not as sorry as you should be. Testiculis Imputresce!"
Goldstein's hands flew to his crotch, and he bent double, gasping for air. Daphne regarded him as if he was something unpleasant stuck to the sole of her shoe. Another wave of her wand, and the door banged open in the hall.
"You'd better leave now before I decide to try out some more of these intriguing spells on you." Her fingers caressed the stack on the coffee table, an edge of an old tome peeking out from between a glossy muggle book and a thick magazine.
Pansy gasped.
Goldstein nodded frantically, face scrunched in pain, and limped to the door in a half crouch.
The memory clouded, and with a tug to his navel, Harry found himself back on the floor of the office. The silvery mist coalesced in the middle of the stone basin and dissolved in the air with a quiet 'poof'.
"What was that?" Pansy asked, startled.
"Goldstein spelled the memory to self-destruct after the viewing." Harry hoped it wasn't harmful to his Pensieve since he was rather attached to it.
"Didn't he realise that we'd still have our own memories of viewing it?" Pansy scoffed.
Harry shrugged. He had thought of that too but didn't see the point of bringing it to the Goldstein's attention. The man was so proud of his own and his firm's inventiveness, after all.
"But never mind that." Pansy waved her hand. "Was that book on the coffee table what I think it was?"
"It's hard to say from the way it was hidden inside that pile, but it definitely looked like it could be." Harry nodded.
"Shit."
"But why would Daphne Greengrass of all people need one of the nastiest Dark Arts books in existence?"
"Well, after that performance? I always knew she was a stone-cold bitch, but I had no idea about the extent of it."
"That spell was certainly no Rash-Inducing Hex. Goldstein seems to have problems sitting to this day." Harry's hand itched to cover his bits protectively.
"How did it go again? Testiculis something... Testiculis Imputresce?"
"It's a very Dark curse you're talking about, Parkinson," Severus spoke up behind them. "I'd thank you not to use it on my lover's privates. I'm rather attached to them, and reversing the effects would be a very long and troublesome process."
Harry turned around to face Severus standing in the doorway. "So it's only my privates you're attached to? I see how it is." His smile belied the offended tone of his voice.
"What does it do, exactly?" Pansy asked.
"Makes your testicles rot away."
"Ouch," Harry said.
"Ouch, indeed. Bellatrix once cursed her brother-in-law with it back in the first war, for getting too handsy with her. Obviously, he didn't wish to go to St Mungo's, so I was tasked with treating him." Severus sneered. "Removing and regrowing Rabastan Lestrange's decaying scrotum and a month of custom potions applied topically several times a day. I fully expected the experience to drive me off men forever so I would live the rest of my days celibate." He shuddered, but then bared his teeth in a rather nasty manner. "I did make sure Rabastan wouldn't be able to get it up any time soon, to prevent further incidents."
"You're a devious man, Professor," Pansy cackled approvingly.
Severus inclined his head in her direction. "Wherever did you get that spell?"
"Daphne Greengrass wasn't too happy with her fiancé breaking off their engagement," Harry explained. "What's more, there's a high chance she got it from the missing Magick Moste Evile."
"Miss Greengrass didn't strike me as a Dark Arts enthusiast," Severus said. "Then again, most successful ones don't."
"And yet she had the book on her coffee table, between the fashion magazines." Harry turned to Pansy. "Was she and Nott close?"
"He didn't mention her among people who'd been in his house recently, but they used to date in Hogwarts. I'd go as far as to say that Theo was madly in love."
"Not Daphne?"
"With her, it was always hard to say."
Harry took out a parchment and a quill and composed a quick missive to Astoria.
"We need to check Daphne's wand," he said. "We can use Priori Incantatem and see if she used any other Dark curses in the last few days of her life. Then we might know why she needed the book in the first place."
"Good idea," said Pansy. "Even if she didn't go through with whatever she took the book for, we still might get some interesting results."
Severus nodded in agreement.
A cross-eyed, dopy-looking grey owl flew over to Harry as he sealed the letter. He had rescued it from an underground distillery during one of his first-ever cases, and it stayed in the office ever since. Technically, it was Fleur and Bill's owl. At the time, he hadn't been ready for a new owl so soon after Hedwig, not to mention Pansy's screeching (Just look at it! Nobody would take us seriously!), so he gave it to the Weasleys, to little Victoire's delight. To Pansy's never-ending horror, Harry used it whenever he needed to send a letter.
"Moonshine! That's a good boy!" Harry petted the owl and tied the parchment to his leg.
Moonshine nipped his ear affectionately and made a detour to Pansy.
"Bottomless pit," she grumbled, feeding him an owl-treat she kept in her drawer just for him. "I don't even like you, you know."
Harry laughed at the blatant lie.
"This is the most ridiculous bird I've ever seen," Severus said, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as well.
Moonshine returned forty minutes later through the fireplace, ruffled and hooting indignantly. Harry took the reply, a scroll of creamy parchment sealed with the Greengrass crest. He broke it and scanned through the content.
"Someone stole Daphne's wand. Astoria wants me to come to the Greengrass Manor right now."