บท 24: Chapter 23: Shockwave
(Daphne POV)
I idly stirred the porridge, my gaze drifting out the window to the manicured lawns of the estate. It was a picture-perfect summer morning, but a storm of unease brewed inside me.
My father, Cyrus Greengrass, cleared his throat, his voice booming across the breakfast table. "Good heavens, Danielle, have you seen this?"
He held up The Daily Prophet, its headline screaming in bold black letters: MALFOY MANOR FIRE: OVER 20 DEAD!
My heart skipped a beat. I glanced at the picture accompanying the article – a smoldering ruin, smoke billowing into the sky, Aurors swarming the grounds. Beneath the image, a chilling caption: "Over twenty bodies found inside the Manor, many burned beyond recognition. Aurors believe Narcissa and Draco Malfoy may be among the victims."
"What a tragedy," my mother murmured, her voice laced with a touch of apprehension.
"More like a bloodbath," Father muttered, his gaze scanning the article. "The Prophet says the bodies were all gathered in the drawing-room, some… quite mangled."
My unease intensified, a cold dread snaking through her. It had been just over a week ago, the day Astoria and I returned from Hogwarts, that the Prophet had announced the murders of Vincent's grandparents. They said it had been done by Death Eaters as revenge for voldemort. I'd sent Vincent letters, my words clumsy, an attempt to offer comfort, but his replies had been short, distant. Now this...
I couldn't shake the feeling of dread. these events had to be connected? And if so, where did Vincent fit in? He was powerful, more powerful than anyone realized.
"I'm going to send Vincent an owl," I announced, pushing the chair back from the table.
"That's kind of you, dear,"mother said.
But as I hurried towards my room, a storm of doubt raged within me.
I had to see him. To look into his eyes. To find the truth.
(Hermione POV)
The Daily Prophet lay open on the table, its headline screaming in bold black letters that sent a chill down my spine: MALFOY MANOR FIRE: OVER 20 DEAD!
I stared at the picture of the charred ruins, smoke billowing into the sky. A knot of unease tightened in my stomach. Over twenty people died. Burned beyond recognition.
"Blimey," Ron muttered from behind his copy of the Prophet, his voice muffled. "Sounds like someone went mental with a box of Fiendfyre."
"They were Death Eaters, Ron," Harry said, his voice low, his gaze fixed on the flames dancing in the fireplace. "Someone must have wanted them gone, badly."
"But… who?" I said, the words catching in my throat. "And why? Voldemort's dead. Vincent… he…"
I couldn't finish the sentence. The memory of a week ago that Vincent's Grandparents had been Killed in a brutal way by death eaters.
"Or maybe…" Harry began, his green eyes narrowed, a flicker of suspicion in their depths.
He didn't need to finish the sentence. We both knew what he was thinking. Vincent.
The thought sent a shiver down my spine. Could he… Could he possibly have something to do with this?
Vincent had saved us all, had killed Voldemort, had ended the threat that had loomed over the wizarding world for so long.
But there was a darkness in him, a ruthlessness, a cold, calculating edge that I couldn't shake. And the memory of that kiss…
My face burned. I'd gone to confront him, to berate him for manipulating Harry, for putting him through such a horrific ordeal. My anger had spilled over, the words a torrent of accusation and hurt. And then… I'd kissed him.
A wave of shame washed over me. What had I been thinking? We were from different houses, different worlds. And yet, in that moment, I'd been drawn to him, to the danger, to the power that radiated from him.
"You alright, Hermione?" Ron asked, his brow furrowed. "You look a bit… flushed."
"Just… thinking," I muttered, my gaze fixed on the Prophet article, the words blurring as my mind raced.
"Thinking about Van Doren, maybe?" Ron said, a sly grin spreading across his face.
"Don't be stupid, Ron," I snapped, but my voice lacked its usual conviction.
"He is a bit fit, though, isn't he?" Ron continued, oblivious to my annoyance. "In a dark, dangerous sort of way. Bet he's got loads of witches after him now."
"He's a fucking bastard, Ron," Harry said, his voice flat. "Don't forget that he used me."
"Yeah, well, not saying he is perfect," Ron countered with a shrug. "But, he got rid of You-Know-Who, didn't he? Reckon the Ministry's giving him a medal."
"The Ministry is too busy trying to figure out what the hell happened to say anything about medals," I said, my voice a bit sharper than intended.
A heavy silence descended upon the room. The only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the distant rumble of London traffic filtering through the grime-coated windows of Grimmauld Place.
I stared at the picture of Malfoy Manor, a sense of dread settling over me. Was this the beginning of something even darker? Or just the aftershocks of a war that had finally, brutally, come to an end?
(General POV)
The silence in Dumbledore's office was thick with unspoken anxieties. The morning sun streamed through the arched windows, casting long, dust-filled beams across the room, illuminating the countless books and curious artifacts that lined the shelves. But the usual air of whimsical charm was absent, replaced by a heavy, oppressive stillness.
Dumbledore sat behind his grand oak desk, his gaze fixed on the copy of The Daily Prophet, his brow furrowed. The headline, stark and brutal, screamed a truth that couldn't be ignored: MALFOY MANOR FIRE: OVER 20 DEAD!
He reread the article, his mind a whirlwind of unsettling possibilities. The sheer scale of the carnage, the brutality of the deaths, It was a puzzle.
Across from him, Severus paced restlessly, his black robes billowing behind him like a storm cloud, his face a mask of barely contained fury. The newspaper clutched in his hand trembled slightly, the parchment crinkling with each sharp inhalation.
"Twenty," Snape snarled, his voice a venomous whisper. "Twenty pleople, dead. Burned alive in that… that inferno. And those Aurors… those incompetent fools… they can't even identify half the bodies!"
Dumbledore watched him, his blue eyes filled with a mix of concern and a weariness that seemed to weigh heavier with each passing day. "Patience, Severus," he said, his voice a gentle rumble that did little to soothe the storm brewing within his Potions Master. "We must allow the Aurors time to conduct their investigation."
"Investigation?" Snape spat, whirling around to face Dumbledore, his black eyes blazing with a cold fury. "What good is an investigation when those responsible are likely halfway to Timbuktu by now? Or worse… lurking within the very walls of the Ministry that's supposed to protect us!"
He slammed the Prophet onto the desk, the parchment shuddering under the force of his anger. "Draco… Narcissa…"
His voice cracked, the carefully constructed mask of indifference shattering, revealing a glimpse of the raw grief that raged beneath the surface.
Dumbledore's gaze softened, a flicker of empathy in his eyes. "I understand your pain, Severus," he said, his voice a low murmur. "But we must not succumb to despair. We must act, yes, but with reason, with strategy."
"Reason?" Snape's voice rose, laced with a bitter edge. "What reason could possibly justify such a massacre?… It's barbaric! Savagery! The Dark Lord himself, for all his cruelty, would never…"
He trailed off, his words dying in his throat as a chilling realization dawned upon him.
Dumbledore watched him, his gaze unwavering, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken question hanging in the air.
They both knew.
The fire at Malfoy Manor, the brutality of the deaths, the echoes of vengeance… It bore a chilling resemblance to another tragedy. A fire that had consumed a manor just a week before.
Vincent Van Doren's grandparents.
"He's responsible, isn't he?" Snape said, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. "That… that boy… He did this."
Dumbledore didn't reply. He simply nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on the swirling patterns of smoke in the fireplace, his mind a whirlwind of unsettling possibilities.
The timing. The brutality. The chilling efficiency… It might point to Vincent. But did they have any proof? No.
"At least Voldemort is truly gone," Dumbledore murmured, his voice barely audible above the crackling of the flames.
He'd retrieved the locket, the last Horcrux, from Sirius just before… well, before everything had changed. He'd destroyed it himself, the process a draining, agonizing ordeal. But it was done. Voldemort's soul was no more. He would not return.
But what of Vincent? What of the boy who'd dared to kill a Dark Lord, who'd shattered their traditions?
Dumbledore sighed.
Vincent Van Doren had changed everything. And as Dumbledore watched the flames dance in the fireplace, a chilling question lingered in his mind.
Was it for the better? He hoped so?
(Amelia Bones POV)
The Daily Prophet lay open on my desk, its headline a stark, brutal declaration: MALFOY MANOR FIRE: OVER 20 DEAD! My hand trembled as I reached for the cup of tea, the porcelain clinking against the saucer. The steam rose, a wavering ghost against the backdrop of the grim news. over twenty dead. A massacre. And I knew, with a chilling certainty that I couldn't share with anyone, who was responsible.
It had been just a day since Vincent Van Doren had stood in this very office. He'd challenged me, accused me of clinging to laws that had failed to protect those I loved, those who deserved justice. He'd reminded me of Edgar, my brother, murdered by Death Eaters, his killers still at large, their crimes unanswered.
And I'd broken. I'd given him the name. Edgar Rowle. The leak. The traitor who'd fed information to the Death Eaters, the one who'd sealed the fate of Vincent's grandparents.
Now, the Malfoys are gone. Bellatrix Lestrange, Along with a lot of heirs of pureblood families it seemed. The news of her escape from Azkaban hadn't reached the public yet, but the Aurors had confirmed her presence at the manor Identified by her wand. One less monster to worry about.
I stared at the charred ruins in the Prophet photograph, a morbid fascination drawing me in. He'd done it. The boy had eradicated the body of the Hydra, a breeding ground for darkness. His methods… brutal, ruthless, undeniably effective.
A shiver ran down my spine. Had I made a deal with the devil? Unleashed a force I couldn't control?
No. I pushed the doubt away. I'd made a choice. A choice born of grief, of a thirst for justice that the Ministry's laws could never quench. And for now, at least, it appeared to be the right one.
I rose from my desk, my gaze falling on Rowle's file. His betrayal, the details of his crimes, the evidence that would shatter the Ministry's carefully constructed facade, He hasn't shown up to work today as I expected, whenever he is I hope is not a good place.
I grabbed the file, its weight a heavy reminder of the darkness that lurked within their ranks. I walked over to the fireplace, its flames dancing a merry jig in the grate. Without hesitation, I tossed the file into the fire.
Part of me burned with curiosity. I wanted to summon Vincent, to demand answers, to understand the how and the why of that night at Malfoy Manor.
But another part, a wiser part, urged restraint. Some truths were best left buried. Some battles were better fought in the shadows.
I'd made my choice. And the wizarding world would be a better place because of it, I had to believe that.
(Vincent POV - 3 days after the Malfoy Fire)
I got the owl from Daphne two days ago.
I considered ignoring her request.
But Daphne… She was different. And after the events of the last week, I couldn't deny a certain… need… for her presence.
I grabbed a quill and scribbled a reply. Meet me at King's Cross tomorrow, 10 a.m.
The next day, I found Daphne waiting near the column by the station entrance, her blonde hair catching the morning sun. She looked… worried.
"Vincent," she said, her voice soft. "How are you?"
"I've been better," I replied, my voice flat.
"I'm so sorry about your grandparents, Vincent. It's... it's just awful."
"Come on," I said, taking her hand. "Let's get out of here."
I apparated us back to my apartment.
"You live here? Alone?" Daphne asked, her eyes wide as she took in the spacious living room, its minimalist decor a stark contrast to the cluttered grandeur of her family's home.
"It's temporary," I explained, pouring her a glass of iced tea. "Until I figure out what to do with… everything."
She took a sip of the tea, her gaze fixed on me. "How are you holding up, Vincent?"
"I'm managing," I said.
She nodded, but I could sense her hesitation, the unspoken questions swirling in those blue eyes. She wanted to ask me something. Something important. Something… dangerous.
I waited.
Silence stretched between us, punctuated by the distant rumble of London traffic.
Finally, she spoke, her voice barely a whisper. "Vincent… the fire… at Malfoy Manor… "
She trailed off, her gaze dropping to her hands, her fingers twisting nervously in her lap.
This was it. The moment of truth.
The silence stretched between us. I could feel Daphne's gaze on me, her blue eyes searching mine. Then, the words tumbled out, barely a whisper, but they hung in the air, heavy with accusation and a fear she couldn't quite mask.
"Vincent… Was it you? Did you… did you kill them?"
I studied her, gauging her reaction, weighing the consequences of honesty. Lies were easy. Deceptions, manipulations, those were tools I wielded with a practiced ease. But with Daphne…
Could I trust her with this truth? With this darkness?
After what felt like an eternity, I made a choice. "Yes," I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. "I killed them. I burned their mansion to the ground."
Her breath hitched, her eyes widening. I saw the shock, the struggle to reconcile the boy she thought she knew with the truth I'd just laid bare.
She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again, the words catching in her throat.
"They murdered my grandparents, Daphne," I said, my voice hardening. "Tortured them. Desecrated their bodies. They would have kept coming for me. For anyone I cared about."
I reached out, my fingers tracing the delicate line of her jaw, my thumb brushing against her cheek. "It was Narcissa Malfoy who found out where I lived. She orchestrated the attack. And Draco… he knew. He knew you and I are close."
My voice dropped to a chilling whisper. "They could have come for you next, Daphne. They could have…"
"I'm telling you this, Daphne, because I trust you. I could have… asked you to make an unbreakable vow with me… but I won't. You know what I did was right, don't you? It had to be done."
She still hadn't spoken, her eyes fixed on mine, a storm of emotions raging within them. I leaned closer, my lips brushing against hers, tasting the faint sweetness of her lip gloss.
Our lips met in a kiss, desperate, urgent. But she pulled away, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps.
"I… I need to go," she said, her voice barely audible. "I can't do this."
Her eyes met mine again, a flicker of something that might have been… fear?... in their depths.
"Your secret is safe with me, Vincent," she said, her voice a low murmur.
And then, she was gone, apparating away in a swirl of disorientation. I had thought her that, leaving me alone in the silent apartment.
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