The atrium of the Ministry of Magic bustled with its usual Monday morning activity—witches and wizards appearing in fireplaces, interdepartmental memos zooming overhead like paper airplanes, and the steady hum of conversations echoing across the vast marble space. Harry stepped out of one of the fireplaces, automatically brushing soot from his formal Auror robes. The badge on his chest felt heavier than usual, and he frowned as he was reminded of the institution he was increasingly getting at odds with.
Across the atrium, near the security desk, a flash of blonde hair caught his attention. Daphne stood with perfect posture, her healer's robes immaculate as she presented her wand for inspection. Harry moved toward the visitor's entrance, careful to maintain a casual pace. As he passed within fifteen feet of her, their eyes met briefly—no more than a fleeting glance that anyone watching would have dismissed as coincidental.
Daphne's chin dipped in the slightest of nods, acknowledging his presence without betraying their connection. Her face remained impassive, the consummate professional securing clearance for a routine visit to the Records Department as arranged already.
Harry continued toward the lifts, joining a crowd of ministry employees. He glanced at his watch—8:45. Right on schedule.
"Level Two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement," announced the cool female voice as the lift doors opened. Harry exited along with several others, nodding curtly to colleagues who greeted him. He turned left, away from the Auror Office, toward the ornate corridor that housed the administrative offices of the Wizengamot.
At the end of the hallway stood an imposing oak door with a brass nameplate: Tiberius Ogden, Senior Member, Wizengamot Administrative Services. Harry paused, straightening his robes before knocking firmly on the door.
"Enter," called a gravelly voice from within.
Harry pushed open the door to find an office that seemed frozen in time—dark wood paneling, ancient tomes lining the walls, and behind a massive desk, Tiberius Ogden himself. The elderly wizard looked up from a parchment he'd been reviewing, his bushy white eyebrows rising in apparent surprise.
"Auror Potter," he said, removing his gold-rimmed spectacles. "I did not expect you so early in the day."
"Mr. Ogden," Harry responded with practiced formality. "Thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice."
Ogden gestured to a leather chair opposite his desk. "When Harry Potter requests a meeting, one makes time. Though I confess to some curiosity about its nature, particularly given your recent... change in assignments." His fingers steepled together as he studied Harry's face.
Harry settled into the chair, keeping his posture straight. "I've been pursuing an independent investigation that I believe may interest you."
"Independent, you say?" Ogden's tone carried a hint of disapproval. "Outside official channels?"
"Some matters require discretion," Harry replied evenly. "Especially when they concern sensitive Ministry history."
Ogden's expression hardened slightly. "And what history might you be referring to?"
"Project Halcyon."
The change was subtle but unmistakable—a slight tensing of Ogden's shoulders, a momentary pause in his breathing. "I'm not familiar with the term."
Harry met the older wizard's gaze directly. "I think you are, Mr. Ogden. As chairman of the Post-War Reformation Committee, you oversaw all rehabilitation programs from 1998 through 2003."
"I oversaw many initiatives during that difficult transition period," Ogden responded, his voice carefully measured.
"Your signature appears on documents I've uncovered," Harry said, watching Ogden carefully. "Documents that were supposed to have been destroyed after the program was terminated."
A flicker of something—alarm, perhaps—crossed Ogden's features before his expression settled back into practiced neutrality. "Documents can be falsified, Potter. I'm sure I don't need to remind you of that fact."
"These weren't falsified," Harry countered. "They bear magical verification seals from the Wizengamot Council. Your seal, specifically."
Ogden reached for a crystal decanter on his desk, pouring himself a measure of amber liquid. He didn't offer any to Harry. "Would you care to tell me how an Auror—particularly one currently assigned to routine diplomatic security—came into possession of supposed sealed Wizengamot documents?"
"I have my sources."
"Unreliable ones, it seems." Ogden took a measured sip of his drink. "Or perhaps deliberately misleading ones. The wizarding world was rebuilding, Potter. Extraordinary times called for extraordinary measures."
Harry leaned forward slightly. "Including experimental memory modification on minors?"
Ogden's jaw tightened. "I don't appreciate your insinuations, Potter. Every program sanctioned by the Ministry during my tenure was thoroughly vetted and deemed necessary for public safety."
"Necessary," Harry repeated, letting the word hang in the air. "Was it necessary to carve binding runes into children's skin? Was it necessary to suppress their memories and manipulate their magical cores?"
"You're treading on dangerous ground," Ogden warned, his voice dropping to a whisper despite the privacy of his office. "Some wounds from the war are best left unprobed. For everyone's sake."
"People are dying, Mr. Ogden," Harry countered. "Survivors of this 'rehabilitation programs' are being systematically eliminated."
"And you believe these alleged deaths are connected to long-closed Ministry initiatives?" Ogden's tone was dismissive, but his eyes betrayed his unease.
"I know they are," Harry said firmly. "What I don't know is why someone is so desperate to ensure the survivors don't remember what was done to them."
Ogden sighed heavily, suddenly looking every one of his advanced years. "Potter, you've earned your reputation for tenacity. But this path you're on—it could have consequences beyond what you imagine. Your status as war hero won't protect you forever."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's a reality," Ogden replied. "The Ministry protects its own. Always has."
"Just as it protected Cornelius Fudge when he denied Voldemort's return? Just as it protected Dolores Umbridge when she tortured students?" Harry's voice remained calm despite the intensity of his words. "That protection seems rather selective, don't you think?"
Ogden's face flushed with anger. "Don't presume to lecture me about Ministry failures, Potter. I was standing against the darkness while you were still in nappies. I saw what the first war did, and then the second. I saw the cost of our hesitation, our unwillingness to take decisive action."
"And that justifies what you did to those children?" Harry asked softly.
"They weren't just any children," Ogden retorted, his composure slipping. "They were the sons and daughters of Death Eaters. Many had been prepared to take the Dark Mark themselves once they came of age. Some had participated in torture sessions as part of their 'education.'"
Harry maintained his composure despite the anger building within him. "The children—"
"Were better off with our intervention," Ogden cut in sharply. "You weren't there in the aftermath. You didn't see the chaos, the fear. Families torn apart, children orphaned or worse—left with parents imprisoned or dead while having been indoctrinated with pureblood supremacy. Something had to be done."
"Something, yes," Harry agreed. "But not the Quintessence Bind."
The color drained from Ogden's face at the specific mention of the ritual. "Where did you hear that term?"
"From the survivors," Harry replied. "Those who still have fragments of memory despite your best efforts to erase them."
"Fragments," Ogden scoffed, though his voice lacked conviction. "More likely delusions brought on by trauma and suggestion."
"I've seen the memories myself," Harry pressed. "I've used pensieve extraction techniques to recover what was buried."
"Pensieves are notoriously unreliable for accessing modified memories," Ogden countered. "Any competent Healer would tell you that traumatic recollections are easily corrupted, especially when tampered with."
"These weren't corrupted," Harry insisted. "They were identical across multiple subjects who had no contact with each other. All describing the same circular chamber, the same seven officials in purple robes, the same ritual components."
Ogden's hands trembled slightly as he reached for a glass of water on his desk. After taking a sip, he spoke more quietly. "The program was legal, Potter. All appropriate authorizations were obtained."
"Legal doesn't make it right."
"Right and wrong become blurred in the aftermath of war," Ogden said bitterly. "Do you think we enjoyed making those decisions? We did what was necessary to prevent another Dark Lord from rising."
"By experimenting on vulnerable minds? By altering their very magical essence?" Harry's disgust was evident. "The survivors I've spoken to have struggled their entire adult lives—unexplained magical outbursts, chronic pain, recurring nightmares they can't fully remember upon waking, and that's not even scratching the surface."
"Side effects," Ogden murmured, almost to himself. "Unfortunate, but not unexpected given the complexity of the procedure."
"Side effects?" Harry echoed incredulously. "These people's lives have been devastated."
Ogden's expression suddenly hardened. "You speak as though they were innocent victims, Potter. Let me remind you that many of these 'children' you're so concerned about were already practicing dark magic. Some had blood on their hands before they ever set foot in Hogwarts."
"So your solution was to experiment on them? To suppress their memories and reshape their personalities against their will?"
"Our solution was to give them a chance at redemption," Ogden countered. "A clean slate. A way to contribute to society without the burden of their upbringing."
Harry's voice hardened. "By torturing children."
"By healing them!" Ogden snapped, slamming his hand on the desk. "They were damaged—exposed to dark magic and ideology from birth. The standard rehabilitation protocols were failing. We needed something more effective."
"And who determined what was 'effective'? The Seven?"
Again, that telltale reaction—Ogden's entire body stiffening at the mention of the group. "You don't understand what you're meddling with, Potter."
"Then explain it to me."
Ogden seemed to wrestle with himself before speaking again. "After the Ross incident, we implemented stricter protocols. The binding was modified to prevent similar... complications."
"The Ross incident?" Harry pressed, filing away this new piece of information.
Ogden's expression closed off. "This meeting is over, Potter. I've indulged your questions out of respect for your service, but I have nothing more to say on matters that were settled and sealed years ago."
Harry stood slowly. "Nothing is sealed forever, Mr. Ogden. Especially not the truth."
"The truth," Ogden echoed with a bitter laugh. "Everyone believes they want the truth until they have it. Then they realize some things are better left buried." He fixed Harry with a penetrating stare. "Let me offer you some advice, as someone who has navigated Ministry politics longer than you've been alive. Walk away from this. For your own sake."
"I can't do that."
"Can't or won't?" Ogden challenged. "Still playing the hero after all these years? Some battles can't be won, Potter. Some victories come at too high a cost."
"What about the cost these survivors have already paid?" Harry countered. "What about justice for those innocents? Those who have been murdered?"
"Justice," Ogden repeated with a weary sigh. "A noble concept, but one that rarely survives contact with reality. What justice would you have me offer? Would you expose the program? Drag the wizarding world through another painful reckoning with its past? To what end?"
"To prevent more deaths, for a start," Harry said firmly. "Four people are already dead. How many more will follow if this remains buried?"
Ogden studied him for a long moment. "You truly believe someone is targeting them specifically because of their connection to Project Halcyon?"
"The evidence points that way," Harry confirmed. "Someone wants to ensure that whatever was done to these children remains hidden. I need to know what that might be—what could be worth killing for after all this time."
Ogden seemed to age further before Harry's eyes, the weight of old decisions pressing visibly upon him. "Not all aspects of the Quintessence Bind were... officially documented."
"What does that mean?" Harry asked, sensing a crucial admission approaching.
"It means," Ogden said carefully, "that certain modifications were made to the procedure over time. Enhancements that went beyond the original scope of rehabilitation."
"What kind of enhancements?"
Ogden hesitated, clearly weighing his words. "The binding doesn't merely suppress memories or limit magical capacity, Potter. In its final iteration, it created a... connection. A network of sorts, linking all the subjects."
That matched with what both Isla Carrow and Eliza Avery had told them.
"Potter... if you're going to keep at this... at least be careful who you trust," Ogden warned. "Project Halcyon had supporters in places you wouldn't expect."
With that cryptic parting statement, Ogden returned his attention to the parchment on his desk, a clear dismissal. "Good day, Auror Potter. I trust you can find your own way out."
Harry lingered for a moment longer, studying the old wizard's face for any further clues. "This isn't over, Mr. Ogden."
"For your sake, I hope it is," Ogden murmured without looking up.
Harry lingered for a moment longer, studying the old wizard's face for any further clues, before turning and exiting the office.
As the door closed behind him, Harry released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Ogden knew far more than he was willing to share—that much was obvious. But his reaction to the mention of the Quintessence Bind had been unexpected. Not defensive or dismissive, but afraid.
What could make a senior Wizengamot member, a man who had stood against Voldemort himself, show such genuine fear?
-Break-
Three floors below, Daphne moved with quiet efficiency through the Records Department. The place was a labyrinth of filing cabinets, shelves, and enchanted storage containers, all organized according to a system that seemed deliberately designed to confuse outsiders. Thankfully, Harry's contact—a junior archivist named Petra Rowle—had provided detailed instructions on navigating to the section she needed.
"Third left after the bronze bust of Artemisia Lufkin, then second right past the enchanted card catalog. The files you want are in Section 12-B, under 'Special Medical Initiatives, 1998-2005'."
Following these directions, Daphne found herself in a dimly lit corner of the archives. The air here felt stale, as if this section rarely saw visitors. Perfect.
She glanced at her watch—9:13. According to Petra, the department head would be in a standing Monday morning meeting for at least another forty minutes, and the junior staff would be occupied with the weekly filing backlog from the weekend.
Daphne quickly located the appropriate shelf, running her finger along the labeled folders until she found what she was looking for: Compassionate Magical Recovery Program (CMRP) - St. Mungo's Joint Initiative, 1999-2003.
She carefully extracted the folder and carried it to a small research table tucked between two towering shelves. Opening it revealed a disappointingly thin collection of documents—mostly bland progress reports and budget summaries that revealed nothing of the program's true nature.
One document caught her attention—a partial list of participants identified only by case numbers. Each entry included a designation: HC-1 through HC-5. Beside each designation was a brief note on "integration progress" with vague terminology like "satisfactory adjustment" or "continued observation recommended."
Daphne's trained healer's eye noticed something immediately: the number of HC-5 designations tapered off dramatically in the later reports. In the earliest document, dated January 2000, there were seventeen HC-5 cases listed. By December 2001, only nine remained, with no explanation for the reduction.
She continued searching, looking for any reference to Project Halcyon specifically. There should have been cross-referencing, particularly for the higher-risk classifications that Eliza had mentioned. But there was a conspicuous absence—as if an entire section of the documentation had been removed.
"Healer Greengrass?" a voice called from behind her, causing Daphne to nearly drop the file she was examining.
She turned to find Terrence Higgs standing at the end of the aisle, his thin glasses gleaming in the low light. His dark hair was immaculately combed, and his Ministry robes bore the insignia of the Department of International Magical Cooperation.
"Mr. Higgs," she responded, quickly regaining her composure. "I didn't expect to encounter anyone from your department down here."
"Nor I you," Terrence replied, approaching with measured steps. "Records Department is a bit outside the usual haunts of St. Mungo's staff, isn't it?"
Daphne gestured to the files before her. "Research for a paper I'm writing on post-war trauma treatment protocols. The archivist approved my access request last week."
Terrence's eyes darted to the open folder. "Ah, the CMRP files. Fascinating program, wasn't it? Revolutionary approach to rehabilitating families affected by Dark magic exposure."
Something in his tone put Daphne on alert. He spoke with a familiarity that suggested more than passing knowledge.
"Were you involved with the program, Mr. Higgs?" she asked casually.
"Not directly," he replied, adjusting his glasses. "Though I did help draft some of the initial proposals during my time in the Minister's office. Those were chaotic days—so many competing priorities for limited resources."
Daphne nodded. "I can imagine. The medical records from that period mention a specialized division for more severe cases, but I'm not finding the complete documentation."
Terrence's expression remained neutral, but Daphne noticed a slight tightening around his eyes. "Record-keeping during the reconstruction was sometimes... inconsistent. Budget constraints, you understand."
"Of course," Daphne agreed, watching him carefully. "Though it seems odd that entire sections would be missing, particularly for a program that received such substantial ministry funding. Nearly half a million galleons over three years, according to these budgets."
"Half a million?" Terrence repeated, his surprise seemingly genuine. "That can't be right. The approved budget for CMRP was capped at two hundred thousand."
Daphne slid the budget summary toward him. "See for yourself. Additional allocations were approved each quarter, authorized by—" she squinted at the signature, "—Mr. Tiberius Ogden."
Terrence leaned forward to examine the document, a frown forming on his face. "This doesn't match the records I reviewed. The discrepancy is... concerning."
"Perhaps there were classified aspects of the program?" Daphne suggested innocently. "Something like 'Project Halcyon' that might have required additional funding?"
The effect was immediate—Terrence's head snapped up, his expression shifting from professional curiosity to guarded caution in an instant. "Where did you hear that name?"
"It was referenced in a footnote," Daphne lied smoothly. "I was hoping to find more information about it."
Terrence straightened, adjusting his robes with careful precision. "I believe you're venturing into classified territory, Healer Greengrass. Some Ministry initiatives from that period remain under seal for national security reasons."
"A healing program for traumatized children is a matter of national security?" Daphne asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Not all aspects of post-war recovery are appropriate for public discussion," Terrence replied stiffly. "If you're conducting legitimate research, I suggest focusing on the approved therapeutic methods documented in the main CMRP files."
"Of course," Daphne conceded, closing the folder. "Though as a medical professional, I find it troubling that experimental treatments might have been used without proper documentation."
Terrence's tone became clipped. "I assure you, all Ministry programs were conducted within appropriate ethical guidelines."
"I'm sure they were," Daphne replied, her voice neutral despite her disbelief. "Thank you for your... clarification, Mr. Higgs."
"Always happy to assist St. Mungo's staff," Terrence said, his professional demeanor firmly back in place. "I should let you return to your research. Good day, Healer Greengrass."
Daphne watched as the man walked away, his back rigid. Only once he had disappeared around a corner did she allow herself a small frown. Higgs's reaction had been telling—he knew about Project Halcyon, and the mention of it had clearly unsettled him.
She quickly gathered the files she'd been examining, replacing them exactly as she'd found them except for one—a thin document listing the administration staff of the CMRP, which she discreetly slipped into her robes. It likely contained nothing vital, but she couldn't risk returning empty-handed after coming this far.
As she prepared to leave, her eyes caught something odd—a record request form wedged in the back of the filing cabinet. Pulling it out carefully, she saw it was dated just three days prior. Someone else had been here, looking at these exact same files.
The signature was a lazy scrawl, nearly illegible, but the department notation was clear: DMLE, Magical Law Revision Committee.
Daphne committed the information to memory before replacing the form and making her way back through the maze of shelves. She had found less than she'd hoped for, but Higgs's reaction had been confirmation enough that they were on the right track.
-Break-
"They've been systematically removing files," Daphne said, keeping her voice low despite the privacy charm Harry had cast around their table.
They had chosen a small Muggle café several blocks from the Ministry—neutral territory where wizarding ears were unlikely to be listening. Harry cradled a cup of black coffee while Daphne sipped tea, both leaning in to maintain their hushed conversation.
"Not just sealed or classified," she continued, "but physically removed from the archives. There were gaps in the filing system where documents should have been."
Harry frowned. "Same with the Wizengamot records. Ogden claimed everything was properly authorized, but when I pressed him on the specifics, he got nervous."
"Did he admit to knowing about the program?"
"Not directly," Harry replied. "But his reaction when I mentioned the Quintessence Bind was unmistakable. He was afraid, Daphne. Genuinely afraid."
Daphne's eyebrows rose slightly. "Tiberius Ogden? The man stood against Voldemort in both wars. What could possibly frighten someone like him?"
"He mentioned something called 'the Ross incident,'" Harry said. "Said they implemented stricter protocols afterward. Any ideas?"
Daphne shook her head. "Nothing specific, but..." She paused, glancing around the café despite the privacy charm. "I encountered Terrence Higgs in the archives."
"Higgs?" Harry's surprise was evident. "What was he doing there?"
"Claiming to be passing through, but his reaction when I mentioned Project Halcyon was similar to what you described with Ogden. He knew something—enough to be concerned that I was asking questions."
Harry took a thoughtful sip of his coffee. "Higgs was junior staff in the Minister's office right after the war. He would have seen all sorts of paperwork crossing Kingsley's desk."
"He said something interesting—that the budget I found didn't match his records. The CMRP was supposedly capped at two hundred thousand galleons, but the documents showed nearly half a million being allocated."
"That's a significant discrepancy," Harry noted. "Enough to fund an entirely separate program operating under the CMRP umbrella."
"Project Halcyon," Daphne confirmed. "And someone else has been looking into these files recently. I found a request form dated three days ago, from something called the DMLE, Magical Law Revision Committee."
Harry's expression darkened. "That's not a standard DMLE division. Sounds like a cover."
"For whom?"
"Could be anyone with Ministry clearance." Harry ran a hand through his perpetually messy hair. "But combined with Ogden's warning about being careful who I trust, it suggests someone high up is monitoring these records."
"What exactly did Ogden say?"
Harry recounted the conversation in detail, finishing with Ogden's cryptic warning about Project Halcyon having supporters in unexpected places.
"He's scared," Daphne concluded. "Not just of the political fallout, but of something specific related to the program itself."
"Or someone," Harry added. "Maybe whoever is eliminating the survivors."
Their conversation was interrupted by a soft chiming sound from Daphne's handbag. She quickly extracted a small silver mirror—a secure communication device that Harry recognized as one of George Weasley's inventions, inspired by the mirror Sirius had once given him.
Daphne murmured an activation phrase, and Astoria's face appeared in the glass, her expression tight with anxiety.
"Daph, I need you home. Now." Her voice was hushed, as if she were trying not to be overheard.
"What's happened?" Daphne asked, immediately alert.
"I can't explain over the mirror," Astoria replied. "It's about... family matters. The ones you've been looking into."
Daphne and Harry exchanged a quick glance. "I'll come right away," she assured her sister. "Should I bring anyone?"
The question was coded, asking whether Harry should accompany her.
Astoria nodded slightly. "The more eyes, the better. Use the east entrance—Father's in London for the day."
The connection ended, leaving Daphne staring at her own reflection in the mirror. "That doesn't sound good."
"The east entrance?" Harry asked, already reaching for his wallet to pay their bill.
"Service entrance to the manor," Daphne explained. "Away from the main gates where visitors are normally announced. Something's definitely wrong if she's suggesting we come in unannounced."
Fifteen minutes later, they appeared with a soft pop on a narrow path bordered by neatly trimmed hedges. Daphne led the way around the perimeter, toward a modest wooden door set into the garden wall. She tapped it with her wand in a specific pattern, and it swung open silently.
They crossed through a kitchen garden, the air fragrant with herbs, and entered through a door that led them into a bright, spacious kitchen. A house-elf looked up in surprise from where it had been kneading dough.
"Mistress Daphne! We wasn't expecting—"
"It's alright, Hettie," Daphne said gently. "Is my sister in her rooms?"
"Miss Astoria be in the library, miss. She asked not to be disturbed, but for family—"
"Thank you, Hettie," Daphne interrupted smoothly. "We'll find our way."
They moved quickly through the house, making their way to the library. Astoria stood by a window, nervously twisting the curtain between her fingers. She looked up as they entered, relief washing over her features.
"Thank Merlin you're here," she said, rushing forward to embrace her sister. "I didn't know what to do."
"What's happened?" Daphne asked, guiding her sister to a nearby sofa.
Astoria glanced at Harry, hesitating briefly before apparently deciding to trust him. "I overheard Mother and Father arguing this morning before he left for his business meeting. They didn't know I was in the garden room."
"What were they arguing about?" Harry asked gently.
"Donations," Astoria said, her voice strained. "Mother was furious about something Father had apparently signed years ago—a donation authorization to the Ministry for a special program. She kept saying the money should never have been traceable back to our family."
Daphne's expression tightened. "Did they mention the name of the program?"
Astoria nodded, her face pale. "Project Halcyon. Father said it was for children's rehabilitation after the war, and..." She swallowed hard. "He said some things should remain buried, and that he'd put the entire family at risk by leaving a paper trail."
Harry and Daphne exchanged significant looks.
"It gets worse," Astoria continued. "Father said someone had been making inquiries—someone with access to Ministry records. He seemed genuinely frightened, Daphne. I've never seen him like that."
"Did he mention who was making inquiries?" Harry asked.
Astoria shook her head. "No names. But he told Mother to destroy any correspondence related to the program immediately. Said something about 'them cleaning house' and that we needed to distance ourselves."
"Them cleaning house," Harry repeated grimly. "The murders."
"That's what I thought too," Astoria admitted. "When he left, I searched his study." She reached into her pocket and withdrew a folded piece of parchment. "I found this in a hidden compartment in his desk."
Daphne unfolded the parchment—a receipt from Gringotts, acknowledging the transfer of fifty thousand galleons from the Greengrass family vault to a numbered account. The date was March 15, 2000.
"The memo line says 'Child Welfare Special Research Initiative,'" Harry noted, reading over Daphne's shoulder. "But there's no specific mention of Project Halcyon."
"Turn it over," Astoria said quietly.
On the back, written in elegant script, was a brief note: "Thank you for your generous contribution to our work. The children of Project Halcyon will benefit greatly from this assistance. Rest assured your support will remain confidential. —A.S."
"A.S.," Harry murmured. "Amir Shafiq? He could be one of the Seven that Eliza mentioned."
"Tori," Daphne said carefully, meeting her sister's troubled gaze. "We need to tell you something. About Father."
Astoria's expression hardened slightly. "If you're about to tell me he was involved in something awful after the war, I've already figured that out."
"We spoke with him," Harry admitted. "A few days ago. He admitted to knowing about Project Halcyon, though he claimed his involvement was limited to financial support."
"You confronted him?" Astoria looked stunned. "And he admitted it?"
"Not willingly," Daphne replied. "But when faced with the evidence we already had, he confirmed that the Greengrass family had contributed to the program."
"Why?" Astoria asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "Why would he support something that hurt children?"
Daphne reached for her sister's hand. "He claims he didn't know the details—just that it was a program to help 'rehabilitate' children from Death Eater families. To help them integrate into post-war society."
"And you believe that?" Astoria's tone was skeptical.
"I don't know what to believe anymore," Daphne admitted. "But the timing of his concern now, with the murders starting..."
"Makes it seem like he knew more than he's admitting," Harry finished.
Astoria stood abruptly, moving back to the window. For a long moment, she stared out at the gardens, her back rigid. When she finally turned, her eyes were bright with unshed tears.
"All my life," she said, her voice carefully controlled, "I've been told that our family's neutrality was a matter of principle. That the Greengrasses were above the petty politics that consumed others. That we made our own decisions."
She gave a bitter laugh. "What a convenient lie. We weren't principled—we were calculating. Supporting both sides just enough to ensure we'd be safe no matter who won."
"Tori—" Daphne began, but Astoria shook her head.
"No, I need to say this." She took a deep breath. "During the war, I actually felt proud when schoolmates from both sides would come to me with problems. The neutral Greengrass girl, trusted by everyone because she wasn't taking sides." Her voice cracked slightly. "But there's a difference between neutrality and moral cowardice, isn't there?"
Harry spoke softly, "Your father did what many thought was right at the time. The rehabilitation programs had widespread support—"
"Because no one knew what they really involved," Astoria interrupted. "Or maybe they did know and just didn't care as long as it happened to 'the right sort' of children." She looked directly at her sister. "Did you know? About Father's involvement?"
"No," Daphne replied firmly. "Not until we confronted him days ago."
Astoria nodded, accepting this. "What are you going to do now?"
"Continue investigating," Harry said. "We need to get to the bottom of this Project Halcyon, and who's killing the survivors now."
"And where do we—the Greengrasses—fit into this?" Astoria asked. "Are we just another family who funded atrocities while claiming to stand for nothing?"
The raw pain in her voice hung in the air. Harry and Daphne exchanged glances, neither immediately answering.
"I need some air," Astoria finally said. "Would you both walk with me in the gardens? I... I don't want to be alone right now, but I can't stay in this house another minute."
The three made their way outside in silence, following a winding path through meticulously maintained gardens. Spring flowers were beginning to bloom, their fragrance filling the afternoon air. Under different circumstances, it would have been peaceful.
"Even neutrals have dirty secrets," Astoria eventually said, breaking the silence as they paused beside an ornamental pond. "At least the Death Eaters were honest about their beliefs. We just... looked out for ourselves and called it wisdom."
"It's more complicated than that," Harry said quietly. "After the war, everyone was desperate for solutions. Ways to ensure it could never happen again."
"So they tortured children?" Astoria asked sharply.
"No," Harry clarified. "I mean that good intentions paved the way for terrible actions. People like your father probably genuinely believed they were supporting something helpful."
"Does that make it better?"
"No," Daphne replied, her voice gentle but firm. "But understanding how it happened might help prevent similar mistakes in the future."
Astoria studied a water lily floating on the pond's surface. "You know what's strangest? I'm not even surprised. Disappointed, yes. Angry, absolutely. But not surprised." She looked up at Harry. "The world everyone rebuilt after the war—it's not the one you thought you were fighting for, is it?"
Harry felt the gravity of her question. "No," he admitted. "It's not."
"I thought defeating Voldemort would fix everything," Harry continued after a moment. "That once he was gone, we could build something better. Something just." He gave a mirthless laugh. "I was naïve."
"We all were," Daphne added. "Even those of us who stood aside."
Astoria nodded slowly. "At least you both are trying to do something now. To uncover the truth."
"It's not without risks," Harry warned. "Someone powerful wants this buried. Your father was right about that much."
"I'll help however I can," Astoria said with sudden determination. "I have access to Father's study when he's away. There might be more information there."
"Be careful," Daphne cautioned. "If what we suspect is true, the people behind these murders won't hesitate to silence anyone who threatens them."
"I'm a Greengrass," Astoria replied with a hint of her usual spirit. "Careful is what we do best." She touched her sister's arm briefly. "I should get back inside before Mother notices I'm gone. She'll ask questions if she sees us together like this, especially with me being such a mess."
With a final, meaningful look at them both, Astoria turned and walked back toward the house, her slender figure soon disappearing around a bend in the path.
Harry and Daphne remained by the pond, absorbing all they had learned. After a while, Daphne spoke.
"When I was growing up here," she said softly, "this garden was my sanctuary. Everything made sense within these walls—our family's position, our carefully maintained neutrality." She gestured around them. "It all seems like a façade now."
"Not everything," Harry replied. "You chose your own path. Became a healer. Started looking for ways to help people who'd been harmed."
Daphne's lips curved in a small, sad smile. "Perhaps. Or maybe I was just trying to atone for standing aside during the war."
"We've all got things to atone for," Harry said. "Decisions we regret. Actions we didn't take."
Their eyes met, a moment of genuine understanding passing between them. Without conscious thought, Harry reached for her hand. Her fingers were cool against his palm as she returned his grip.
"What's our next move?" she asked, not pulling away.
"We need to find out what 'the Ross incident' was," Harry replied. "Ogden seemed truly frightened when he mentioned it. Whatever happened, it might be the key to understanding why someone's killing the survivors now."
Daphne nodded, her expression resolute. "I'll see what I can learn from Eliza and the others. The Quintessence Bind connects them all—they might have fragments of memory that could help."
"And I'll try to track down more information on the administrative side," Harry added. "Higgs's and Ogden's reactions suggest there are people in the Ministry who know more than they're admitting."
A cool breeze rippled across the pond, disturbing the perfect reflection of clouds above. Harry looked down at their joined hands—the healer and the Auror, both wrestling with the imperfect world they had helped create.
"We're getting closer," he said quietly. "Whatever secrets they're trying to bury, they won't stay hidden much longer."
Daphne's fingers tightened around his. "No," she agreed. "They won't."
TBC.
Visit patreon.com/TheBlackEarl to read more of my work. The username is the same on all other sites where I post, so you can find me anywhere else using the same. Thanks for reading!