In the days that followed, Harry tried to make sense of the turbulent start of the week. Each new piece of the puzzle brought more questions than it solved. Apparently, Goldstein did spend the six days leading to Daphne's death and two days after that in a private facility in the Swiss Alps, not at all in a hurry to return to England. The witch at the clinic's international floo was polite but cagey with information. She did confirm that Goldstein had been there, but not before contacting him first. If only St. Mungo's operated that way, Harry griped. Every minute detail of his diagnosis never failed to appear in the Prophet every damn time he landed there. Often together with embarrassing photos.
Going through Daphne's Gringotts statements yielded some more unexpected results. There was an enormous transaction on her account on June 2, the day Lee had mentioned meeting her at the bank. Daphne Greengrass transferred 100,000 galleons—roughly the half of all available money on her account—to vault 387401 in the name of one A. S. Greengrass.
Despite his better judgement, Harry sent Pansy to Gringotts. The goblins still held a grudge against him for the breakout, so he didn't even attempt to approach them himself. Yet Pansy was not successful either: the account manager remained tight-lipped. Not that Harry expected anything else. Goblins were even more particular about client confidentiality than private Swiss clinics.
Convinced that Astoria was not what she seemed, Pansy was bursting with excitement. His partner was now coming up with increasingly convoluted theories of her double games. Astoria was somehow involved in her sister's death, she was sure. Nothing, even the fact that Astoria's middle name turned out to be Diana, could dissuade her now.
"Potter, how can you be so blind?" Pansy threw her hand in the air. "She'd fooled everyone, everyone but me! Oh, I've always seen her for the treacherous cow that she is! And whose fault is it that we've all missed it?"
"Malfoy's?" Harry guessed. If something wasn't Astoria's fault, it was usually Malfoy's. Sometimes, talking to Pansy was like talking to thirteen-year-old Ron, even though both would be horrified at the comparison.
"What does Draco have to do with this? He's been fooled just like the rest of the world." Oh, so this was not one of those times. "The fault is yours, obviously!"
"Mine?!"
"You were the one who made me take down the surveillance from their flat half a year ago." Pansy crossed her arms over her chest.
Harry winced, remembering that particular disaster and resulting Howler from Malfoy. "You know I couldn't let that go on. Did you have it for long?" He never asked for details because he was afraid of what he would learn.
"Only for a week." Pansy pouted. "Never got a chance to see anything incriminating—and you have only your integrity to blame." She pronounced integrity with an air of a person being handed a horned slug. "She might be well on her way to becoming the next Dark Lady, and no one is the wiser!"
While Pansy's accusations grew more and more ridiculous, Harry could not deny that keeping a closer eye on Astoria might be a good idea. There had been some bad blood between the sisters that even death couldn't bridge. Still. Why would Astoria contact him for an investigation if she was somehow responsible for whatever had been happening to Daphne? Nobody had thought there was anything suspicious about her sister's death. The public jumped to conclusions about a drug overdose—a fact that should have pleased Astoria greatly if she was involved—and even those rumours had been dying down after a month in the papers.
Astoria herself seemed to be disturbed to learn of the transaction. She couldn't fathom the reason for such an astronomical amount, and insisted there were no Greengrasses with such initials anywhere.
Pansy vowed to look into the matter most thoroughly. There were some problems with that, though. Wizards didn't have an easy-to-check paper trail Muggles had, so you could never know for sure what—or whose—skeletons families were hiding in their closets.
There were all sorts of Pureblood genealogy claptrap: Nature's Nobility, tapestries like the one at Grimmauld Place, all of them heavily curated and edited. The best bet was Hogwarts Book of Admittance, although not everybody in the wizarding world attended it. The DMLE and Wizengamot had their own records, as did St. Mungo's, but those were limited and unreliable. And not available to the general public, although getting them was laughably easy. Shacklebolt hinted at introducing Wiz-IDs at the beginning of his term and was almost ousted from the office. Ostensibly, the Muggle-Born Registration Commitee was too fresh in everybody's memories. In reality, wizards loved their privacy too much.
And then, there was the matter of Magick Moste Evile.
Wednesday found Harry in the company of Theodore Nott, Exotic Symbol Analyst at the Ministry and a former lover of Daphne Greengrass. Hunched in the seat in front of Harry's desk, he stared unseeingly out of the window. The plain grey robes he wore emphasized the deep shadows under his eyes and unhealthy pallor of his skin.
"Why didn't you tell us that Daphne Greengrass had been to your house?" asked Harry. The list of other visitors consisted of Nott's elderly Great Aunt and her house-elf who came once a week to clean and cook. It was unlikely that Nott had simply forgotten.
"Daphne didn't need her name involved with any of this. People would question why she was at my house—and come to correct conclusions. Not to mention the Dark Arts shit. She didn't need any of that," he repeated, eyes never leaving the window. "And she never once went anywhere near the library when she visited. You've seen the place. Those books weren't something she was ever remotely interested in. She would never hurt a fly."
It seemed that Nott didn't know Daphne Greengrass nearly as well as he thought. Or simply wanted to see the best in her. Love did that to people. Harry held back from telling him about Goldstein breaking up with Daphne, and had asked Pansy not to say anything either. Sometimes, you were better off without wondering about useless could-have-beens.
"How often did you see her?" Harry asked instead.
"Once or twice a month. More often than her fiancé, that's for sure," Nott added vindictively. "But she hadn't been over for quite a while. The last two times, I've come over to hers."
"Did she discuss anything out of usual with you?"
Nott's ears went red. "We didn't discuss much of anything. She preferred to keep her life separate." His face crumpled and he let out a choked breath, almost a sob. "I still cannot believe she's dead! I didn't even get to go to the funeral!"
Pansy, who had been sitting in silence at her desk all that time, appeared at his side right away. "Let's go, Theo, darling. Potter here likes to play a seasoned Auror conducting an interrogation. No concern about other people's feelings." She threw an apologetic glance in Harry's direction. "What you need right now is a glass or three of something stiff in the Leaky. And that's where we're going right now." Her voice bore no room for argument as she dragged the unresponsive Nott to the floo.
Harry let Pansy play out her part of a 'good Auror' and comfort Nott whom she knew much better after many years together in Slytherin. Hopefully, she'd suss more information out of him that way. He glanced at a clock on the wall: almost midday. Severus was not due to emerge from the lab for at least an hour. The consequences Harry had been promised should he attempt to disturb him were dire. It was also way too early for a long-overdue visit to Romilda Vane, a nocturnal creature. Not having anything better to do, he grabbed his robe and apparated to Daphne's house.
The street was unchanged. Pigeons were puffing out their chests and eying Harry with suspicion. Sunlight shimmered in the air, indicating the low-level Muggle-Repelling Charms around the area for those who knew what to look for. Not hiding the building completely, but enough to avert the attention of idle passers-by.
Before going to Daphne's flat, Harry stopped by the neighbour's door. Five minutes of knocking later, he accepted that nobody was home and headed upstairs. Daphne's door, however, opened for him readily: Astoria must have added him to the wards. Good. Now he didn't have to explain his breaking and entering to her. While a magical portrait in the flat turned out to be an unexpected boon, it was also very hard to sneak in without it noticing everything.
And speaking of noticing, Harry had some questions for Benedict.
"Good morning, Harry." Benedict appeared to be another night owl, if magical paintings even needed their nightly sleep. "Didn't expect to see you so soon."
"Hullo, Benedict. Everything's quiet here?"
"Not a soul." The portrait looked Harry over with a critical eye. "Don't take me wrong, my friend—I've got only your best interests at heart. But... have you considered a new barber?"
Harry reached to smooth his hair before he could stop himself. "It's a lost cause."
"Because if not for the colour, your hair would be a perfect recreation of a haystack I found myself in one notable summer of 1768. I do have fond memories of the highly enjoyable hours I spent there." Benedict winked with a wry smile that put dimples on his cheeks. "I wonder if Brown's Barbershop is still operating in Diagon Alley. In my time, they worked magic, and not just the regular kind."
"I'll look into it." Like hell he would. "Say, Benedict. Are you sure you mentioned everybody who'd been here in the last months?"
The grey eyes narrowed shrewdly. "I think you already have someone in mind if you're asking the question."
"Do I?"
"Theodore Nott." Benedict studied his perfectly manicured nails.
"You didn't mention him the first time." Harry prodded, sitting down at the sofa. Its snowy whiteness kept him on edge, with his back straight.
"You see, Astoria is a wonderful girl." The portrait sighed. "But a bit of a prude. And unfairly judgemental when to comes to her sister, even while she's willing to give everyone else a chance." His eyes shone at the juicy piece of gossip, much like Pansy's. He didn't seem to have nearly as many qualms about discussing Astoria's faults as her sister's. "Are you aware of the scandalous nature of her fiancé's youth?"
That was one way to put it. "I've been present during the events," Harry said dryly.
"Yes, I guess you were." Benedict made a careless gesture with his wrist. "That explains why Draco has such a dislike for you."
"We've disliked each other since our first ride at the Hogwarts Express."
"Oh, but a couple of years outside Hogwarts dormitories, and most schoolyard grudges are water under the bridge. House rivalries, first heartbreaks. Silly nonsense." Benedict waved his hand again. "And those that aren't, usually run much deeper than the pique you seem to raise in my future thrice-great grandson-in-law." He tilted his head, studying Harry. "But you have witnessed him at his lowest—while coming out of those situations as a lauded hero yourself, no matter how deservedly—and that is not something many can forgive."
"That's one way of looking at it," Harry said. This was Hermione's perspective on Malfoy as well.
"Whatever else Draco is, at least he is never boring."
"It's hard to disagree with that."
"With Daphne's own fiancé being a hopeless dullard who was never there, is it any wonder she turned to her old flame? But Astoria would never understand." Benedict shook his head. "Don't get me wrong, I myself never approved of that particular relationship."
"Oh?"
"Yes. The key to a successful engagement and marriage is to keep your liaisons brief, fun and casual," he said with a didactic air, clearly speaking from a vast personal experience. "And that affair was none of those things. The boy was too much in love with Daphne. Arrangements of that sort can only ever end in tears."
Harry studied the portrait. It was easy to see this bon-vivant with youthful, well-groomed looks as feather-headed and shallow, but the man behind the paint and magic was no Lockhart. That white curly wig and an artfully tied cravat hid a keen mind, sharp wit and an ocean of dubious life wisdom.
"Do you miss it?" he blurted. "Being alive, I mean. Sorry if it's a rude question." He pushed his glasses up his nose. It was probably yet another unspoken rule of the wizarding world he didn't know about. At Hogwarts, magical paintings were a natural part of the near-sentient castle, as the ghosts or Peeves. After years of seeing them every day, Harry never thought to question their nature. They were simply there, always had been and always would be. And outside of Hogwarts... He couldn't very well question old Walburga, could he? Or even Phineas Nigellus in the library. Harry consulted him on occasion, but the man was just as likely to mess with him as to give a straightforward answer.
A shadow of longing and sadness flickered across Benedict's face, chased away by a burst of harmonious laughter. "Modern world wouldn't know what to do with me, nor I with it." His expression grew more serious. "Don't be fooled, magical portraits are but traces of personalities of the wizards and witches we once used to be. We don't have the same desires or feelings. Only memories of having them."
Still, it had to be tedious, sitting there in confines of the frame all day, with no one to even talk to. Harry would get antsy halfway through a slow day in the office. Imagine spending years, decades, centuries in one place, with nowhere to go.
"We sleep most of the time when nobody is around," Benedict said, as if sensing the direction of Harry's thoughts. "It can be, however, quite a lonely existence, especially for a social person such as myself. I do wish they won't leave me here for long. As I mentioned already, I have another portrait back in the Manor, but nobody takes a seven-year-old seriously, even my own son who's hanging next to me. Especially my own son!" he dismayed.
"I hope we'll figure out what happened to Daphne soon, so you won't have to keep watch here anymore."
Benedict gave a solemn nod.
"There's also another matter," Harry said cautiously. "Goldstein shared a memory of the break-up with me. I noticed Daphne had a book here that might be the one I'm looking for as a part of another case. A very dangerous book."
Benedict's eyes lit up with understanding. "Magick Moste Evile, if I caught the title right from over here."
"Yes!" Harry leaned forward. "That's the one."
"I perused a copy once back in my Hogwarts days. You know how it is; it is the second book everybody looks at when they sneak into the Restricted Section for the first time."
"Second?"
"After Carnal Rites, naturally. Don't they have sex magic books there anymore?"
Harry's Hogwarts experience was looking to be woefully incomplete.
"Gruesome curses that force intestines out of the ears never held any interest for me. I always preferred to slay my foes with my words." Benedict pointed at the parchment on his desk. "An article by me could make or ruin a man."
"There's power in them." Rita Skeeter's poison quill would be the first proof of that.
"There was one French Ambassador, Marques Delacour, who refused to see that it was time for us to part our ways. A dashing man, but rather unimpressive with his wand."
Harry snorted. Benedict's voice left little doubt as to which wand he meant.
"So he conspired with Calpurnia Black, another former lover of mine who felt spurned, to bring ignominy upon my name," he continued. "Fortunately, I learned about the plot in time. One biting feuilleton later, and Calpurnia's husband—then Chief Warlock—is sending hapless Jean-Baptiste back to France in disgrace. At that time, Muggles there decided they didn't want aristocracy anymore, and the wizards followed suit. The Marques regretted making an enemy out of me very fast. And as for Calpurnia... May I give you a piece of advice, my dear friend?"
"Yes?" Harry asked, although Benedict hardly needed his contribution to the conversation to carry on with it.
"Never fall for a Black. You might be tempted: their beauty is fabled, as is their passion. But scrape anyone from that family a little, and you'll find pure vindictiveness to the point of madness inside." Benedict paused dramatically before continuing. "So Calpurnia's husband, in his jealousy of the Marques, poisoned his wife, but not before she—born half-Black as well—cursed him into insanity for the rest of his days."
Anger issues in Sirius's family ran deep.
"I must admit it was not what I anticipated when orchestrating my vengeance," he added thoughtfully. "But it goes to show that you should never underestimate the power of the written word."
"And I here thought I learned that lesson the hard way." Harry snorted. "Your memoir must be a blast, if you have one."
"I wrote a play about these particular events, with slight changes to the names and under an alias. Society was in an uproar; Wizengamot banned it the day after release. Which meant the play was inevitably brought on stage that very year, and drew full house for six seasons straight."
"You are something else, Benedict." Harry laughed.
"Why, thank you, Harry."
Standing up, Harry remembered the actual reason he came here. "Wait, the book. What happened to the book Daphne had?"
"Oh, the book. Later after Anthony's visit, she put it in her purse before leaving. I can only assume she returned the book to whomever she got it from."
"How long did she have it?"
"I saw it only that one time. She could have had it for longer, though. She rarely brought her books here from the study," said Benedict.
"Was she looking for something in particular?"
"No, don't think so." He shook his head. "Just browsing. I thought maybe she was seeking inspiration from all those gory pictures. Darkness is always in vogue, as long as it's suitably non-threatening. That day she was particularly absent-minded and short with me, so I didn't ask." A light frown marred his brow.
"Thank you, Benedict."
"It's the least I can do. You are always welcome to come here and chat."
Harry left the flat, even more confused than after his first visit, his mind whirling.
Nott wasn't sure when exactly the book was stolen, since he himself rarely ventured to that part of the library. The house-elf who used to dust it once a week told Nott about the book's disappearance, two days after it had already been here in Daphne's flat. Whenever she took it, she couldn't have had it for too long.
And where did she take it? Was she afraid Goldstein would call the Aurors? Benedict might have thought nothing of it, but that wasn't the comparatively toothless Hogwarts edition. That particular tome would bring the attention of both the DMLE and Unspeakables faster than he could say 'adultery'. But no, Daphne didn't cast the spell in anger she might later regret. In Goldstein's memory, she never once lost her cool. She must have expected him to be too embarrassed to tell anyone. Did she give the book to someone else? And how did the mysterious A.S. Greengrass whom she had transferred so much money to just a week before fit into the picture?
There were just too many questions, and Harry had none of the answers.