The knock comes at half-past three in the afternoon, while Marcus is in the cellar photographing the 1987 files and Iris is upstairs making her third pot of coffee. She knows it's a knock because it's deliberate—three sharp raps on the manor's front door, the kind that comes from someone confident they'll be answered.
Iris freezes with the kettle suspended over the pot.
Through the kitchen window, she can see a car on the drive. Not Ministry-marked, but the kind of sensible sedan that belongs to someone who works in an office and thinks of herself as practical. The woman standing on the porch is fifty-something, gray-streaked hair pulled back in a clip, wearing a cardigan despite the March cold. Her shoes are good leather. Her handbag is leather too, well-maintained. Everything about her says I am trustworthy and I am official.
Iris recognizes her from a photograph Eleanor kept in the 1987 file.
Professor Diane Ashford. Transfiguration. Hogwarts staff. Ministry payroll.
The knock comes again. Harder this time.
Iris sets the kettle down and moves to the parlor window, keeping back from the glass. Ashford is checking her watch. She's brought something with her—a folder of papers, held against her chest like it's important. Like Iris might care about Hogwarts assignments when her grandmother has been dead three months and her family is dissolving into Ministry conspiracy.
The blood-ward hasn't let her past the threshold. Iris can tell from the way Ashford keeps her distance from the door, the way her shoulders are slightly tense. She can feel the ward's resistance.
"Iris?" Ashford calls through the door. "It's Professor Ashford from Hogwarts. I've brought your spring assignments. I wanted to check in on you, make sure you're managing."
Iris doesn't move.
"The Headmaster was concerned when you didn't return for afternoon classes. Your aunt Margaret received a letter from the Ministry. We wanted to make sure everything is all right."
Everything is not all right. Everything is actively, catastrophically wrong. But Ashford doesn't need to know that Iris knows that Ashford knows. Not yet.
Iris descends the stairs, her footsteps loud on the wood. She wants Ashford to hear her coming. She wants Ashford to understand that someone is home and capable and not in crisis. She pulls the door open just far enough to see Ashford's face properly.
"Professor," Iris says. "This is unexpected."
Ashford's eyes are gray and assessing. They move across Iris's face like she's reading something written there. Looking for signs of what, Iris isn't sure. Knowledge. Guilt. Evidence that Iris has descended into the cellar and read the archive.
"You look well," Ashford says finally. "I was worried you might be struggling with the isolation."
"Eleanor's housekeeper suggested I stay in the manor for a week after the will reading. It seemed respectful."
"Of course." Ashford holds out the folder. "I have your assignments for the remainder of the term. Transfiguration essays, reading lists, a few practical exercises you can work through here. The Headmaster thought it might help to keep you occupied while you're grieving."
Iris takes the folder without opening it. She can see the edges of parchment inside, neat handwriting, perhaps Eleanor's name written in margins or perhaps not. Ashford's handwriting, probably. Official and controlled.
"That's thoughtful," Iris says. She doesn't step back. She doesn't invite Ashford inside, but she doesn't close the door either. She lets Ashford stand on the threshold, blocked by the blood-ward, and waits.
"How are you managing, actually?" Ashford's voice softens. "Losing a grandparent is difficult. Losing an entire household in one moment—it must be overwhelming."
She's testing me, Iris realizes. Ashford is listening for the kind of response that would come from someone who's been here alone, reading, grieving, unaware. She's listening for the isolation in Iris's voice, the confusion, the vulnerability. She's trying to determine whether Iris has found something in this house that would suggest Eleanor left behind more than a will and a letter.
"It is overwhelming," Iris says, and means it. "But I'm managing. Eleanor was very organized. She left instructions about what I should do during this week. I've been following them."
There's a pause. Ashford's jaw tightens slightly.
"Instructions?" Ashford asks.
"To stay here. To read her letters. To understand who she was." Iris keeps her voice steady. "The housekeeper left them on the side table. Eleanor wanted me to have time to process before I had to return to school and deal with everyone's questions."
Ashford nods slowly. She's still listening, still assessing. "The Headmaster is very concerned about you, Iris. Your background, your sudden discovery of your magical inheritance—it's been an unusual transition. We want to make sure you're not overwhelmed."
"I'm fine," Iris says. "Really. Sad, but fine."
"And you haven't left the manor at all since you arrived?"
"I haven't left." Which is true. She's been in the cellar, but the cellar is still technically the manor. "Eleanor's housekeeper was quite clear that I should stay."
Ashford shifts her weight. The folder she offered is still extended, and Iris is still holding it. Neither of them is moving.
"If you need anything," Ashford says carefully, "if you find anything in the manor that seems unusual or concerning—old documents, perhaps, that you don't understand—I hope you'll contact me. Or the Headmaster. We're here to help you, Iris. That's all we want. To help you transition into your new life without any confusion about the past."
There it is. The offer. The rope. Ashford is giving Iris an out—a way to report the archive without appearing to have been hiding it. A way to seem cooperative, helpful, unaware that the archive contained anything dangerous.
"I don't think there's anything like that," Iris says. "Eleanor was very clear in her letters about what she wanted me to know."
"And what was that?"
"That she loved me. That she was sorry she couldn't know me better. That I should be careful about who I trust." Iris smiles, and it feels like breaking something. "Standard deathbed wisdom, I suppose."
Ashford's expression doesn't change, but something shifts behind her eyes. A calculation. A reassessment.
"Well," Ashford says. "I hope your week of solitude is restorative. The Headmaster expects you back at Hogwarts on Monday. Your classes will resume normally, and we'll do our best to help you adjust. Grief support is available through Madam Pomfrey if you find you need it."
"Thank you," Iris says. "That's kind."
"It's what we do." Ashford steps back from the threshold, and the blood-ward releases her. She moves down the porch steps carefully, as if she's thinking through something. At the bottom, she turns back. "Iris? If you find yourself uncertain about anything—about Eleanor, about your family, about what you think you know—please come to me first. Before you speak to anyone else. Can you promise me that?"
The question is a test. Ashford is asking Iris to choose a side, to choose trust, to choose the Ministry's version of things over whatever Eleanor might have left behind.
"I promise," Iris says.
It's not a lie. She doesn't plan to speak to Ashford about any of this. She doesn't plan to speak to anyone. She plans to photograph the archive and distribute it to journalists and become a fugitive and let the evidence speak for itself.
Ashford nods, satisfied or at least willing to pretend to be satisfied. She walks back to her car, settles into the driver's seat, and pulls out of the drive. Iris watches until the car disappears around the bend in the road toward Hogsmeade.
Then she closes the door and leans against it, breathing.
From the cellar, there's no sound. Marcus is still working. The archive is still waiting. The clock is still running.
Iris sets Ashford's folder on the side table and doesn't open it. She descends the cellar stairs and finds Marcus photographing the 1988 files—another year thick with wrongful expulsions, another year of Ashford's signature on falsified documents.
"She was here," Iris says.
Marcus looks up. "How long?"
"Five minutes. She wanted to know if I'd found anything unusual. She wanted to know if I'd left the manor. She wanted to know if I was going to tell her anything before I told anyone else."
"And you told her?"
"That Eleanor loved me. That I should be careful about trust. That everything is fine."
Marcus sets down the photograph he's been preparing. "Did she believe you?"
"I don't know." Iris sits down on the cellar floor, suddenly exhausted. "I think she's uncertain. I think she's going back to Thorne to report that I seem normal, unaware, unsuspicious. But I also think she doesn't know for sure."
"Then we work faster," Marcus says. "If Ashford is uncertain, she'll keep quiet for now. But Thorne will push. He'll want verification. And once Ashford reports that she couldn't confirm anything, Thorne will know that either you're an excellent liar or you genuinely don't have access to the archive."
"Which means?"
"Which means he'll assume the worst and move forward with the warrant. He can't afford to wait and find out." Marcus returns to the filing cabinet. "We have maybe thirty hours now. Possibly less. Get some sleep. When you wake up, we start with the files that matter most—the ones that will bring Thorne down if they're distributed correctly."
Iris nods and climbs the cellar stairs. The manor is quiet around her. The blood-ward holds. And somewhere outside, Professor Ashford is driving back to Hogwarts, uncertain whether to report that Iris Blackwood is a threat or simply a grieving girl with nothing to hide.
The uncertainty is a gift. It's also a clock.
Iris falls asleep at half-past six, fully clothed on top of Eleanor's bed, and dreams of fire.