Harry sat leaning back into the chair, gazing at the grimy ceiling of the private room of The Hog’s Head. Daphne sat beside him, her back straight, fingers tapping an impatient rhythm on the scarred wooden table. "Are you sure they'll come?" she asked, glancing toward the door for the third time in as many minutes.
"They'll come," Harry assured her, though he understood her skepticism. Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini weren't exactly known for their reliability—at least not to those outside their tight-knit Slytherin circle. But the desperation in Nott's eyes had been genuine. "They have as much at stake in this as we do."
"More, perhaps," Daphne conceded. "Blood ties run deep in families like the Notts."
Harry nodded, recalling the raw emotion that had momentarily cracked Theodore's usually impassive facade when speaking of his cousin. Before he could respond, the door creaked open, revealing Aberforth's weathered face.
"Your other guests are here," the old barman announced gruffly. "Want me to check them for wands?"
"That won't be necessary," Harry replied, rising to his feet. "But thanks, Aberforth."
The barkeeper grunted and stepped aside, allowing Nott and Zabini to enter. Both men were dressed in plain traveling cloaks, clearly having made an effort to attract minimal attention. Their eyes immediately fell on Daphne, and Harry didn't miss the flicker of surprise—and wariness—that crossed their features.
"Greengrass," Nott acknowledged with a slight inclination of his head. "I wasn't aware you were involved in this."
"Clearly," Daphne replied coolly, though Harry detected a hint of amusement in her voice. "Though I might say the same about you two. Since when do the scions of Sacred Twenty-Eight families concern themselves with Ministry coverups?"
"Since those coverups involved our families," Zabini answered, removing his cloak and draping it over a nearby chair before taking a seat. His movements were fluid, elegant, betraying nothing of his thoughts. "Though I admit, I'm curious how the Greengrass heiress found herself working with Harry Potter, of all people."
Harry felt Daphne tense slightly beside him. "Professional interests aligned," she said simply, offering no further explanation.
"She's a Mind Healer," Harry added, feeling the need to establish Daphne's expertise and right to be present. "Specializing in memory magic. Her insights have been invaluable."
Nott turned to Harry. "I assume you've brought her fully up to speed?"
"She knows everything we do," Harry confirmed. "And more, in some areas. Daphne's the one who first identified the runic patterns as components of the Quintessence Bind."
This earned a raised eyebrow from Zabini. "The Quintessence Bind? What’s that? Some forbidden magic?"
"Fully forbidden, under international magical law. Which didn't stop the Ministry from adapting it for their purposes."
"We brought everything," Nott said once he and Zabini exchanged a glance, placing a leather satchel on the table and breaking the tension. "Records, photographs, testimonies—everything we've gathered over the past three years."
Harry nodded appreciatively. "Good. Let's lay it all out—see if together we can find what we've been missing separately."
Aberforth returned briefly with a dusty bottle and four glasses, muttering something about ‘conspiracies making him thirsty’ before retreating and closing the door firmly behind him. As Harry poured the amber liquid, Nott began extracting neatly organized folders from his satchel.
"We've arranged it chronologically," he explained, spreading the documents across the table's surface. "Beginning with the initial Ministry directive establishing Project Halcyon in late 1998."
Zabini pointed to a faded interdepartmental memo. "Note the signatories. Department of Mysteries, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and most interestingly, the Internal Relations Department."
"Internal Relations?" Harry frowned. "That's an obscure department. What was their involvement?"
"They handled sensitive matters that crossed departmental boundaries," Daphne explained. "Often used as a diplomatic buffer between conflicting Ministry interests."
"Exactly," Nott confirmed, appearing mildly impressed with her knowledge. "And in this case, they served as the administrative oversight for a project that legally shouldn't have existed."
Harry leaned forward, studying the document more carefully. The memo was carefully worded, full of bureaucratic jargon and euphemisms—"rehabilitation programs," "protective interventions," and "magical stabilization procedures" featured prominently.
"They were very careful never to explicitly state what they were doing," Zabini observed, his tone bitter. "Always deniability. Always a layer of abstraction between action and responsibility."
"The signatures," Daphne said suddenly, tapping the bottom of the document. "I recognize Ross's name—Lawrence Ross from the Department of Mysteries—but who is the signatory from Internal Relations?"
Nott and Zabini exchanged glances before Nott replied. "Amir Shafiq. Former head of Internal Relations."
"Shafiq," Harry repeated, the name immediately triggering recognition. "That was one of the names on Eliza's list—one of the Seven."
"And possibly one of the two remaining targets if he’s involved," Daphne added grimly. "Where is he now?"
"Azkaban," Zabini replied, causing all heads to turn toward him. "Not for this, of course. Convicted three years ago for accepting bribes and misappropriation of Ministry funds. The irony isn't lost on us."
"Azkaban," Harry repeated thoughtfully. "That would make him difficult to reach—for us and for our killer."
"Unless the killer has Ministry connections," Nott pointed out. "Which seems increasingly likely given the precision of these attacks."
"Wait," Daphne interrupted, rifling through the documents until she found what she was looking for—a personnel file with Shafiq's moving photograph attached. "I know this man. Not personally, but by reputation. My father mentioned dealings with him years ago." She looked up, her expression troubled. "He was known for being particularly harsh toward former Death Eater and neutral families after the war—especially those who avoided Azkaban or further scrutiny through legal or political maneuvering."
"Like your father," Zabini stated bluntly.
Daphne's chin lifted slightly. "Yes. Like my father."
An uncomfortable silence fell over the table, broken when Harry redirected them to the matter at hand. "The fact that he's in Azkaban might explain why he hasn't been targeted yet. But it doesn't give us much time to reach him first."
"You want to interview him," Nott said, a statement rather than a question.
"Don't you?" Harry countered. "He's one of the few people who can tell us exactly what Project Halcyon entailed, beyond what we have discovered so far—and perhaps who this Corvus really is."
"Good luck getting visitor approval for Azkaban," Zabini scoffed. "Especially now that you're on Robards's bad side."
Harry couldn't help the slight smile that crept onto his face. "I may be off active duty, but I still have a few privileges left. A few favors I can call in."
"Ever the golden boy," Zabini muttered, though without real malice.
They spent the next two hours methodically reviewing the assembled evidence, piecing together a timeline of Project Halcyon's development and implementation. What emerged was a picture as disturbing as they had discovered, now confirmed from one more source: a systematic program targeting children of Death Eaters and suspected dark wizards, conducted under the guise of "rehabilitation" but actually designed to suppress certain magical abilities deemed dangerous by the post-war Ministry.
"Look at this," Daphne said, holding up a document labeled 'Subject Classification Criteria.' "It’s exactly what we found. They weren't just targeting children from Death Eater families. They were specifically selecting those who showed signs of strong magical affinity for certain branches of magic—particularly those related to mental disciplines."
"Legilimency," Nott said, nodding. "That's what William mentioned in his letters. He said he'd been having 'intruding thoughts'—picking up impressions from other people's minds without trying."
"And blood magic," Zabini added grimly. "My cousin Alessandra had shown early signs of blood magic sensitivity. Traditional in certain branches of Italian wizardry, but viewed with suspicion in Britain."
"They were afraid," Harry muttered aloud. "After Voldemort, they were terrified of another powerful dark wizard rising. So they targeted children who showed aptitude in disciplines that could be used for dark magic."
"Punishing them for abilities or affinities they were born with," Daphne said quietly. "For potential rather than actions."
The implication hung heavily in the air. Each of them, in their own way, understood the dangerous precedent such thinking represented.
"Here," Zabini said after a moment, sliding a photograph across the table. "This might be our most valuable piece of evidence. My contact in the Department of Magical Transportation managed to retrieve this from the Floo Network Authority archives."
The photograph showed a formal Ministry gathering—some sort of departmental celebration, with officials in dress robes raising glasses in a toast. In the center stood seven individuals, clustered together as if sharing a private moment amid the broader celebration.
"The Seven," Harry breathed, recognizing Ellis Travers and Eleanor Broadmoor from the crime scene photographs. "All together in one place."
"December 2000," Zabini confirmed. "The official two-year review of the 'Post-War Rehabilitation Initiative'—their public cover for Project Halcyon."
"Travers, Broadmoor, Pierce, Belby, Pucey," Nott counted off, pointing to each figure in turn. "Shafiq here, on the end. And this one must be the seventh—Ross."
Harry studied the seventh figure carefully. Lawrence Ross appeared to be in his late fifties in the photograph, distinguished-looking with silver-streaked dark hair and an air of academic authority. Unlike the others, who were smiling and relaxed, Ross's expression was more reserved, almost watchful.
"Lawrence Ross," Daphne murmured, staring at the photograph with an intensity that caught Harry's attention. "Currently Senior Unspeakable, specializing in consciousness magic. Author of several classified papers on memory and magical identity. And if Shafiq is in Azkaban..." She looked up, meeting Harry's eyes. "Ross is the only one of the Seven still free and unharmed."
"The final target," Harry concluded. "Unless we're wrong about the pattern."
"We're not wrong," Nott said firmly. "Everything points to a methodical elimination of these seven specific individuals."
"We need to speak with Shafiq," Harry decided, pushing back from the table. "And we need to do it quickly, before our killer finds a way to reach him in Azkaban."
"When?" Daphne asked, already gathering the most essential documents into a neat pile.
"Tomorrow," Harry replied. "I'll make the arrangements tonight."
"I'm coming with you," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.
Harry hesitated only briefly before nodding. "Your expertise on memory magic might be crucial. Especially if Shafiq's mind has been affected by Azkaban."
"And us?" Zabini inquired, gesturing between himself and Nott.
"Keep digging into Ross," Harry suggested. "Everything you can find about his current activities, his security, his habits. If he's the next target—or, potentially, the killer himself—we need to know more about him."
Nott raised an eyebrow. "You suspect Ross could be behind this?"
"I don't know what to think anymore," Harry admitted. "But I've learned not to rule out possibilities simply because they seem unlikely."
As they prepared to leave, carefully packing away the documents and evidence, Harry found himself watching Daphne. She moved with practiced efficiency, but there was a tension in her shoulders that hadn't been there before. The revelation about Shafiq had affected her more deeply than she was letting on.
"Are you alright?" he asked quietly when Nott and Zabini stepped away to speak with Aberforth about the back exit.
She glanced up, momentarily surprised by the question. "I'm fine. Why?"
"You seemed... troubled when Shafiq's name came up."
Daphne was silent for a moment, her fingers tracing the edge of a document. "My father had dealings with him," she finally said. "Unpleasant ones. After the war, Shafiq led an initiative to impose special restrictions on families who had avoided prosecution through what he called 'legal technicalities.'"
"Like your father," Harry said gently.
"Yes." She met his gaze directly. "My family walked a careful line during the war, Harry. We didn't support Voldemort—not actively—but we didn't oppose him either. We did what many pureblood families did: we survived."
Harry nodded, understanding more than she might have expected. "And Shafiq wanted to punish that neutrality."
"He wanted to make examples of families like mine," Daphne corrected. "To show that not taking a side was itself culpable. The restrictions nearly ruined us—asset freezes, travel bans, surveillance." Her voice hardened. "And all while he was secretly participating in a program to magically bind children's abilities."
Harry placed his hand over hers, his touch gentle. The gesture surprised them both. "We'll get answers from him," he promised. "Whatever his personal vendetta against your family, it doesn't change what he did to those children."
Something shifted in Daphne's expression—a softening, perhaps, or a moment of genuine connection. Before she could respond, Nott called from the doorway.
"Coast is clear. We should leave separately."
The moment broken, Daphne withdrew her hand and nodded briskly. "I'll meet you tomorrow, then. For Azkaban."
"For Azkaban," Harry echoed, wondering what revelations—and what dangers—awaited them there.
-Break-
The North Sea churned beneath the small boat, iron-gray waves slapping against its wooden hull rhythmically. Harry stood at the prow, one hand gripping the railing as spray occasionally misted his face. Behind him, Daphne sat huddled in her traveling cloak, her expression fixed on the dark shape gradually materializing through the morning fog.
Azkaban. Even without the Dementors, the fortress radiated a palpable malevolence—a concentration of human suffering that had seeped into its very stones over centuries. Harry had visited several times in his capacity as an Auror, but the approach never failed to affect him. Each time, he found himself thinking of Sirius, wasting away within those walls for twelve long years.
"Charming place," Daphne remarked, her voice light as she came to stand beside him. "I can see why it's not in the tourist brochures."
Harry appreciated her attempt at humor. "The Ministry considered decommissioning it after the war," he replied. "Too many dark associations. But pragmatism won out—it's virtually impossible to escape, even without Dementors."
"Unless you're Sirius Black," she noted.
"Or a Death Eater with Voldemort's help," Harry added grimly, thinking of the mass breakout in their fifth year.
Their boat operator—a grizzled wizard with the weathered face of someone who'd spent decades fighting the North Sea—called out gruffly from the stern. "Ten minutes to docking. Get yer identification ready."
Harry patted the inner pocket of his jacket, where he carried the special authorization he'd secured through Kingsley's office. It had required calling in his final favor with the Minister—a card he'd been saving for truly desperate circumstances. But with two more potential murders hanging in the balance, desperation seemed appropriate.
"Are you sure they'll let me in?" Daphne asked, her voice low. "I'm not exactly Ministry-approved personnel."
"You're listed as a consulting specialist in memory disorders," Harry replied. "Technically true, given your profession. And my authorization comes directly from the Minister's office—hard to argue with that."
She raised an eyebrow. "You're getting quite comfortable with these bureaucratic manipulations, Potter. Very Slytherin of you."
"I'll take that as a compliment," he said with a fleeting smile. "Though I doubt Robards will see it that way when he finds out."
"When, not if?"
"Definitely when. This isn't the sort of thing that stays quiet." Harry turned to face her fully, his expression serious. "Are you prepared for that? Being associated with me now could have professional consequences for you."
Daphne met his gaze steadily. "I've been weighing those consequences since the moment I agreed to help you, Harry. I've made my choice."
The simple declaration, without drama or the slightest of hesitation, affected Harry more deeply than he'd expected. Before he could respond, their boat bumped against the stone jetty extending from Azkaban's base.
A reception committee of two Aurors and a prison administrator awaited them on the dock, their postures stiff with the alertness common to those who worked in high-security environments. Harry recognized one of the Aurors—Gemma Fenwick, a capable witch who had joined the department a few years after him.
"Potter," she acknowledged, her tone professional but not unfriendly. "This is unexpected."
"But authorized," Harry replied, handing over his paperwork. "Direct from Kingsley's office."
The administrator—a thin, reedy man with wire-rimmed spectacles perched on a prominent nose—examined the documents with obvious suspicion. "This authorization is highly irregular, Mr. Potter. Especially given your current... status with the Department."
"My current status doesn't invalidate a ministerial order," Harry pointed out mildly. "And time is of the essence."
"And who is this?" the administrator asked, looking past Harry to where Daphne stood.
"Daphne Greengrass," she introduced herself before Harry could speak. "Memory specialist, consulting on this case."
The administrator's frown deepened. "No mention of a consultant in these papers."
"Check paragraph three," Harry suggested. "Authorization for 'necessary specialist support as determined by Investigating Officer Potter.'"
Fenwick’s lips twitched slightly, suggesting she was suppressing a smile at Harry's maneuvering. The administrator, however, looked far from amused as he re-read the document.
"Very well," he conceded grudgingly. "But standard protocols apply. No wands beyond this point. All conversations monitored. Maximum interview time of one hour."
Harry nodded, having expected these conditions. "Understood."
"This way, then," the administrator said, turning on his heel and leading them toward the fortress entrance.
As they approached the towering iron gates, Daphne moved closer to Harry, her arms touching his. "I can feel it," she murmured, her voice barely audible over the howling wind. "The magic-dampening wards. They're... oppressive."
Harry nodded, experiencing the familiar sensation himself—like walking through invisible cobwebs that clung to his skin, muffling his connection to his own magic. "One of the reforms after the war," he explained quietly. "Targeted suppression fields instead of Dementors. More humane, supposedly."
"Debatable," Daphne replied, eyeing the looming structure with evident distaste.
The processing took nearly twenty minutes—surrendering their wands, submitting to magical screening, signing multiple liability waivers, and being briefed on emergency procedures. Throughout it all, Harry noticed Daphne observing everything with clinical interest, her professional demeanor firmly in place.
Finally, they were led deeper into the fortress, through corridors that progressively narrowed and darkened, despite the enchanted torches placed at regular intervals. The sound of their footsteps echoed off stone walls worn smooth by centuries of similar processions.
"Prisoner Shafiq has been moved to an interview room," Fenwick informed them as they descended a particularly long staircase. "He's been... erratic since his incarceration. Some days more lucid than others."
"Erratic how?" Daphne inquired, her professional interest evident.
Fenwick glanced at the administrator, who nodded permission to answer. "Paranoid delusions, primarily. Claims people are trying to extract information from his mind. Talks about 'them' coming for him."
"Given recent events, perhaps not entirely delusional," Harry observed dryly.
"Perhaps not," Fenwick conceded, lowering her voice. "Between us, Potter, there's something off about this whole situation. Robards has been unusually interested in Shafiq's visitor logs lately."
Harry filed this information away carefully. "Thanks for the heads-up."
"I never said anything," she replied with a meaningful look.
They reached a heavy door reinforced with both physical and magical barriers. The administrator tapped his wand in a complex pattern, and the locks disengaged with a series of metallic clanks.
"One hour," he reminded them sternly. "I'll be monitoring from the adjacent room."
The door swung open to reveal a small, windowless chamber containing a simple metal table and three chairs. In one of them sat Amir Shafiq.
Harry had seen photographs of Shafiq in his prime—a distinguished, imposing figure with the natural authority of someone accustomed to wielding power. The man before them was a shadow of that image. Three years in Azkaban had left him gaunt, his once-immaculate beard now straggly and streaked with gray. His Ministry robes had been replaced by the standard-issue gray uniform of Azkaban inmates.
Most striking, however, was the change in his eyes. Once sharp and calculating, they now darted nervously around the room, widening when they landed on Harry.
"Potter," he croaked, his voice rusty from disuse. "I knew you'd come eventually. They sent you, didn't they? To finish it."
Harry exchanged a brief glance with Daphne before taking the seat opposite Shafiq. "No one sent me, Mr. Shafiq. I'm here to ask you about Project Halcyon."
The effect of those two words was immediate and dramatic. Shafiq's already pale face drained of what little color remained, and his hands—resting on the table—began to tremble visibly.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said automatically, the denial sounding rehearsed. "There was no such project."
"Four people connected to Project Halcyon are dead, Mr. Shafiq," Harry said, his voice calm but firm. "Ellis Travers. Morgan Pierce. Marcus Belby. Adrian Pucey. And as of three days ago, Eleanor Broadmoor."
Each name seemed to strike Shafiq like a physical blow. He shrank further into his chair with each one, shaking his head in wordless denial.
"All members of the Seven," Daphne added, her tone clinical. "All bearing the same runic mark around them when found."
"Impossible," Shafiq whispered. "The records were sealed. The program terminated. No one should know—" He cut himself off abruptly, realizing his mistake.
"No one should know what, Mr. Shafiq?" Harry pressed gently.
For a moment, Shafiq merely stared at them, his expression caught between fear and calculation. Then, unexpectedly, he let out a harsh laugh.
"It doesn't matter anymore, does it?" he said, the words tumbling out with feverish intensity. "They're already coming for us. One by one. The binding is failing."
"The Quintessence Bind," Daphne specified, leaning forward slightly. "That's what you used on the children, isn't it?"
Shafiq's eyes snapped to her, seeing her properly for the first time. "Greengrass," he said, recognition flaring. "Cyrus Greengrass's daughter. The mind witch."
"Mind Healer," she corrected coolly.
"Semantics," he dismissed with a flick of his trembling hand. "You wouldn't understand the necessity. None of you do. You didn't see what we saw after the war—the darkness taking root in those children. Unnatural abilities manifesting. The cycle beginning again."
"What cycle?" Harry asked.
"Dark magic," Shafiq replied, as if explaining something obvious. "It corrupts from within. These children—they were already showing signs. Legilimency without training. Affinity for blood magic. One girl could make birds drop dead from the sky just by looking at them." His voice dropped to a whisper. "We had to intervene."
"By binding their magical abilities," Daphne stated.
"By saving them from themselves," Shafiq corrected vehemently. "By saving all of us from what they might become."
Harry leaned forward, keeping his voice measured despite the anger building within him. "Tell me about Corvus."
The reaction was explosive. Shafiq jolted as if shocked, nearly upending his chair as he scrambled backward. "How do you know that name?" he demanded, panic edging his voice. "No one knows that name! It was struck from all records!"
"Not all of them," Harry replied simply. "Who was he, Mr. Shafiq? What made him different from the others?"
"He shouldn't exist," Shafiq muttered, more to himself than to his visitors. His fingers had begun tapping an erratic rhythm against the metal table. "A miscalculation. An anomaly in the ritual matrix. Ross said it was impossible."
Daphne exchanged a significant look with Harry before asking, "What was impossible?"
"Redirection," Shafiq answered distantly, his gaze now fixed on the wall behind them. "The binding should have suppressed his abilities permanently. Instead, he... absorbed the ritual somehow. Turned it inward, then outward again." He shuddered visibly. "I was there. I saw his eyes change during the procedure. Saw him looking back at us with awareness that shouldn't have been possible."
"What happened to him?" Harry pressed.
Shafiq's focus returned suddenly, his eyes locking onto Harry's with surprising intensity. "Ross took him. Said he needed special containment. Special study. That was the last time any of us saw him."
"And the others?" Daphne asked. "The other children who underwent the binding?"
"Dispersed. Monitored. Some to orphanages, some to distant relatives. The successful cases were reintegrated into society." A hint of pride crept into Shafiq's voice. "Most don't even remember the procedure. Clean breaks in their memory—surgical precision."
"Except they're starting to remember, aren't they?" Harry suggested. "The binding is weakening."
Shafiq's momentary composure shattered. "Impossible," he repeated, though with less conviction. "The binding was permanent. Ross guaranteed it."
"Yet here we are," Daphne said coolly. "With five of the Seven dead, each marked with the binding rune."
Harry reached into his pocket and withdrew a folded piece of parchment—a sketch of the runic mark found on Eleanor Broadmoor's palm, with its modified central whorl. He slid it across the table toward Shafiq.
"Do you recognize this variation?" he asked.
Shafiq stared at the drawing, transfixed. His breathing quickened, becoming shallow and rapid. "No," he whispered. "No, no, no. It's evolving. It shouldn't be able to evolve. That's the fifth configuration."
"Fifth?" Harry repeated, seizing on the detail. "Out of how many?"
"Seven," Shafiq confirmed, still staring at the rune as if it might leap off the paper to attack him. "Seven configurations to complete the reversal. That's what the text said. The ancient grimoire Ross found in the Department archives."
"So there will be two more murders," Daphne concluded grimly. "You and Ross."
Shafiq's head snapped up, his eyes wild. "He's coming for me next. I've known it since they brought me here. That's why I requested isolation. Protection." He laughed, the sound brittle and unhinged. "As if these walls could stop him. He was always the most powerful of them all."
"Who?" Harry asked, though he already suspected the answer.
"Corvus," Shafiq breathed, the name barely audible. "The boy who remembered."
Daphne leaned forward. "Mr. Shafiq, what was his real name? Before you called him Corvus?"
A strange calm suddenly settled over Shafiq's features. "Does it matter? Names are just containers. What matters is what's inside." He tapped his temple. "And what's inside him now is something none of us understood. Something ancient. Something waiting."
"Waiting for what?" Harry pressed.
"Completion," Shafiq replied simply. "The seventh configuration. The return."
"Return of what?" Daphne asked.
But Shafiq had retreated into himself, his momentary lucidity fading. He began muttering about "necessary interventions" and "magical stability"—the same bureaucratic euphemisms they'd seen in the official documents.
Harry tried several more questions, approaching from different angles, but Shafiq remained lost in his circular reasoning and self-justifications. After nearly twenty minutes of diminishing returns, Harry caught Daphne's eye and received a subtle nod of agreement. They needed to change tactics.
"Mr. Shafiq," Harry said, deliberately hardening his voice. "The murders will continue. Ross will be targeted. And after him, potentially others connected to the project. We need to know who Corvus really is if we're going to stop this."
Something in Harry's tone seemed to penetrate Shafiq's mental fog. He looked up, blinking rapidly. "Stop him? You can't stop him. He's been planning this for years. Gathering strength. Remembering." The former official shuddered. "Memory is the key, you see. Memory and power, intertwined."
"Then help us understand," Daphne urged, her voice gentler than Harry's. "Help us prevent more deaths."
Shafiq studied her for a long moment, as if seeing past her exterior to something deeper. "You've touched minds damaged by memory charms," he said suddenly. "I can see it in your eyes. You know what fractured consciousness looks like."
"I do," Daphne acknowledged.
"Then you know the danger," Shafiq continued urgently. "A mind forcibly reshaped will always seek its original form. Like water finding its level. The more powerful the original consciousness, the stronger the pull toward restoration." He leaned forward conspirationally. "That's what we didn't account for. The sheer magical potential in some of these children. The binding couldn't contain it forever."
"Especially not in Corvus," Harry suggested.
"He was... exceptional," Shafiq admitted reluctantly. "We should have recognized the signs earlier. The way he looked at us during evaluation. Like he could see through our intentions. Through us." Another shudder. "Ross was fascinated by him. Called him a once-in-a-generation magical prodigy."
"Is that why Ross took him?" Daphne asked. "To study him?"
"To control him," Shafiq corrected. "To ensure the binding held. To monitor for... leakage."
"And did it?" Harry asked. "Leak?"
The question provoked another abrupt shift in Shafiq's demeanor. He sat up straighter, his eyes clearing as a bitter smile twisted his lips. "Oh yes. Little by little. Year by year. Ross documented it all. Warned us. But the Ministry wanted success stories. Wanted to believe we'd solved the problem of dark magical inheritance once and for all."
He let out a hollow laugh. "Ross tried to tell them. Tried to warn that the binding was weakening in certain subjects. That additional suppressions might be necessary. But by then, the project had been officially 'concluded.' Success declared. Medals awarded." The bitterness in his voice intensified. "Political convenience trumping magical reality—the eternal story of the Ministry."
"Where would we find these records?" Harry asked. "Ross's documentation of the binding's deterioration?"
"Department of Mysteries," Shafiq replied with a dismissive wave. "Where all inconvenient truths go to die. Locked away in the Mind Division. Not that you could access them—not without Ross's authorization."
"And Ross himself?" Daphne inquired. "Where is he now?"
"Where he's always been," Shafiq said, a hint of resentment coloring his tone. "Protected. Insulated. The only one of us who emerged from Project Halcyon with his reputation not just intact but enhanced. 'Pioneering work in memory stabilization,' they called it. Never mentioning the true nature of his experiments."
Harry felt they were approaching something crucial. "What was the true nature?"
Shafiq stared at him for a long moment, conflict visible in his expression. Finally, seeming to reach a decision, he leaned forward and lowered his voice, despite knowing the room was monitored.
"The binding was only part of it," Shafiq whispered, his eyes darting to the corners of the room as if expecting shadows to manifest into listeners. "The children's abilities weren't simply suppressed—they were harvested."
"Harvested?" Harry repeated, the word leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.
"Ross developed a modification to the binding ritual. Instead of merely containing the children's magical potential, it... extracted certain aspects. Especially the mental disciplines." Shafiq's hands trembled as he formed them into a cup-like gesture. "Like drawing water from a well. The children were left with enough magic to function normally, but the specialized abilities—the ones the Ministry feared—those were siphoned away."
"Siphoned to where?" Daphne asked, her voice barely audible, though Harry could hear the controlled rage beneath the professional calm.
Shafiq's gaze dropped to the table. "To containment vessels, initially. But Ross... Ross had more ambitious ideas. He theorized that the extracted magical potential could be redistributed. Used to enhance similar abilities in compatible recipients."
Harry felt cold realization wash over him. "The Seven," he said. "You used these children's stolen abilities to enhance your own."
Shafiq neither confirmed nor denied the accusation, but his silence was damning.
"That's why you're being hunted," Daphne concluded, disgust evident in her voice. "It's not just revenge—it's reclamation."
The door to the interview room swung open before Shafiq could respond, revealing the thin administrator flanked by two unfamiliar Aurors.
"Time's up," he announced curtly. "Prisoner Shafiq is due for his medical assessment."
Harry glanced at his watch in surprise—they'd only been speaking for forty minutes, not the full hour they'd been promised. "We have twenty more minutes according to our authorization."
"New orders," one of the Aurors said flatly, not meeting Harry's eyes. "Direct from Head Auror Robards. All interviews with Prisoner Shafiq are suspended until further notice."
Daphne caught Harry's eye, a subtle warning in her expression. This wasn't a battle they could win—not here, surrounded by Aurors in the heart of Azkaban.
"We appreciate the time you've given us," Harry told Shafiq, rising from his chair. "We'll be in touch if we have further questions."
Shafiq lunged forward suddenly, grasping Harry's wrist with surprising strength. "Listen to me, Potter," he hissed urgently. "Look for the missing files—Patient Seven. The records were split up for security. And watch Ross—he's not what he seems. He never was."
The Aurors moved quickly, one pulling Shafiq back while the other stepped between him and Harry.
"That's enough," the administrator snapped. "Please exit the room immediately, Mr. Potter, Ms. Greengrass."
As they were escorted out, Harry heard Shafiq call after them, his voice rising with each word: "The seventh configuration is coming! The cycle will complete! Memory returns to power!"
The heavy door slammed shut, cutting off his increasingly frantic warnings.
Harry and Daphne were led back through the labyrinthine corridors in silence, both lost in their own thoughts as they processed Shafiq's revelations and cryptic warnings. The extraction of children's magical abilities, the enhancement of the Seven, Ross's mysterious experiments—the puzzle kept taking shape, but the full picture remained elusive.
Their wands were returned with minimal ceremony, the prison staff clearly eager to see them leave. As they stepped out into the courtyard that led to the dock, Harry noticed Daphne take a deep breath of the salty air, as if trying to cleanse her lungs of Azkaban's oppressive atmosphere.
"Potter."
The voice came from behind them. Harry turned to see three Aurors approaching—two junior officers he recognized vaguely from the department, flanking a more senior Auror named Hughes, a hard-faced woman with short iron-gray hair.
"Auror Hughes," Harry acknowledged coolly. "Is there a problem?"
"I need to speak with you and your... companion before you leave," Hughes said, her gaze lingering on Daphne with obvious suspicion.
Harry felt his shoulders tense. "We've complied with all visitor protocols. Our authorization came directly from Minister Shacklebolt."
"I'm not questioning your authorization, Potter. I'm questioning your companion's identity and purpose here." Hughes pulled a scroll from her robes and unrolled it slowly. "According to your paperwork, you're accompanied by a 'memory specialist' consulting on your case."
"That's correct," Harry replied evenly.
"Yet you failed to mention that your 'specialist' is Daphne Greengrass—daughter of Cyrus Greengrass, who, as I'm sure you're aware, was investigated for Death Eater sympathies following the war."
Daphne stepped forward, her posture impeccable, her expression revealing nothing. "My father was cleared of all charges, Auror Hughes. And my professional credentials are a matter of public record."
"Your family's connections remain a matter of interest to the Department," Hughes countered.
"Are you suggesting my companion isn't qualified to consult on memory magic?" Harry asked, not bothering to hide his irritation.
"I'm suggesting, Potter, that bringing someone with documented family connections to Death Eater circles to interview a high-security prisoner without full disclosure represents a serious breach of protocol." Hughes's tone was professional but laced with unmistakable hostility. "Head Auror Robards will be very interested to hear about this... oversight."
One of the junior Aurors shuffled uncomfortably, clearly conflicted about confronting Harry Potter, the Ministry's former golden boy. The other kept his gaze fixed on a point somewhere over Harry's shoulder, avoiding eye contact entirely.
"I take full responsibility for any procedural oversights," Harry said firmly. "Ms. Greengrass's expertise has been invaluable to this investigation. Her family history is irrelevant."
"That's not your determination to make, Potter." Hughes's mouth tightened. "You're operating outside your authority—pushing boundaries that shouldn't be pushed."
"Are you detaining us, Auror Hughes?" Daphne asked, her voice perfectly controlled.
The question hung in the air, forcing a decision. Hughes's eyes narrowed as she considered her options. "No," she finally said. "But I am logging a formal objection to your presence here today. And both of you will be required to submit to a memory scan before leaving Ministry jurisdiction."
"A memory scan?" Harry repeated incredulously. "On what grounds?"
"Security protocol for unauthorized personnel accessing sensitive information," Hughes replied smoothly. "Surely you haven't forgotten departmental regulations in your brief... sabbatical, Potter."
One of the junior Aurors—the one who had been avoiding eye contact—finally spoke up. "Ma'am, I'm not sure that's necessary. Mr. Potter's authorization clearly allows for—"
"Did I ask for your interpretation, Auror Finch?" Hughes cut him off coldly.
"No, ma'am," he replied, his eyes dropping immediately.
Harry noticed a flicker of something—sympathy? concern?—cross the young Auror's face before his professional mask slipped back into place. It confirmed what Harry had suspected: these orders were coming from above, and not everyone in the department was comfortable with them.
"We'll submit to standard memory verification," Harry conceded, knowing that outright refusal would only escalate the situation. "But I'll be filing a formal complaint about this harassment, Hughes."
"File whatever you like, Potter." Her smile was thin and satisfied. "But remember—you're not wearing an Auror's badge anymore. Your complaints don't carry the weight they once did."
The memory scan was quick but intrusive—a superficial version of Legilimency designed to flag only specific recent memories related to Azkaban security or prisoner information. Harry had undergone the procedure before and knew how to compartmentalize, bringing forward only the most benign aspects of their interview with Shafiq.
Daphne, as a skilled Mind Healer, handled the scan with remarkable composure, her mental barriers subtle but effective. The scanning Auror—not Hughes, but a specialist brought in from the security team—found nothing actionable and reluctantly cleared them to leave.
As they walked toward the dock where their boat awaited, Harry noticed the young Auror—Finch—hurrying to catch up with them.
"Mr. Potter," he called, lowering his voice as he fell into step beside them. "A word, if I may."
Harry slowed his pace, curious despite his wariness. "Yes?"
Finch glanced over his shoulder to ensure Hughes wasn't watching. "I wanted you to know—not everyone in the Department agrees with how you're being treated. A lot of us remember what you did during the war." He spoke quickly and urgently. "And there's something else. Shafiq's been acting strange the past few days—more agitated than usual. Keeps saying someone's trying to reach his mind."
"Someone like who?" Daphne asked sharply.
"He won't say—or can't." Finch shrugged. "But last night, he was screaming about ravens and missing memories. The guards had to sedate him."
Harry exchanged a meaningful look with Daphne. "Ravens. Corvus."
Finch nodded. "I don't know what you're investigating, sir, but... be careful. Robards has been making a lot of calls to the Department of Mysteries lately. Private calls."
"Thank you, Auror Finch," Harry said sincerely. "I appreciate the risk you're taking."
The young Auror stepped back, resuming his professional demeanor as Hughes emerged from the prison entrance. "Safe journey, Mr. Potter, Ms. Greengrass."
The boat ride back began in silence, both Harry and Daphne lost in their own thoughts as Azkaban slowly receded behind them. The prison looked somehow more menacing in departure than it had on arrival as it seemed to watch them leave.
Harry noticed that Daphne kept glancing back at the shrinking silhouette, her expression troubled in a way he hadn't seen before. The customary composure that defined her professional demeanor had slipped slightly, revealing something raw underneath.
"What is it?" he asked quietly, moving to sit beside her at the stern.
She didn't answer immediately, her eyes still fixed on the distant fortress. "I'm thinking about the children," she finally said. "About what was done to them in the name of protection."
Harry nodded, understanding all too well. "Punished for abilities they were born with. For potential rather than actions."
"Do you know how many children of Death Eaters disappeared into orphanages or distant relatives' homes after the war?" Daphne asked, her voice tight. "How many were suddenly 'sent abroad' for their education? I always thought it was shame, or fear of association. But now..." She shook her head. "How many of them went through Project Halcyon? How many had pieces of themselves stolen?"
The question hung in the air between them, uncomfortably resonating with both. Harry found himself thinking of his own childhood—of the cupboard under the stairs, of the years spent being punished for a magic he didn't know he possessed.
"I spent my childhood being punished for what my parents were," he said quietly. "The Dursleys—my Mum’s sister and her family—they hated magic—hated that it was in their home, in their family. They tried to suppress it, to pretend it didn't exist." A hollow laugh escaped him. "Not so different from what the Ministry did to these children, in the end. Different methods, same principle—fear of what's different, fear of what might grow too powerful to control."
Daphne turned to him then, really looking at him, perhaps seeing him clearly for the first time. "I never knew," she said simply. "About your childhood. There were rumors at Hogwarts, of course, but..." She trailed off.
"I don't talk about it much," Harry admitted. "But being in there, hearing about children being... harvested..." He nearly spat the word. "It brings it all back. The helplessness. The injustice of being punished for something you have no control over."
The boat crested a particularly large wave, sending spray across the deck. Neither of them moved to shield themselves from it.
"Corvus is one of those children," Daphne said after a moment. "Grown now, and hunting down those who took from him."
"And the others," Harry added. "I think that's what Shafiq meant about memory returning to power. It's not just Corvus remembering—it's all of them, slowly recovering what was taken."
They fell silent again as the fortress finally disappeared into the mist behind them. Without discussing it, both had turned to face forward, toward the mainland growing slowly larger on the horizon.
"We need to find Ross," Daphne said decisively. "Before Corvus does."
"And we need those files Shafiq mentioned—Patient Seven." Harry ran a hand through his wind-tousled hair. "If Robards is communicating with the Department of Mysteries, he might be trying to protect Ross—or silence him."
"Either way, we're running out of time." Daphne's voice had regained its professional edge, but both could feel something had shifted between them. It was a shared understanding that went beyond their investigation.
As the mainland drew closer, Harry noticed Daphne shivering slightly in the cold sea air. Without thinking, he moved closer, providing what warmth he could against the biting wind. She stiffened in his arms, but after a moment's hesitation, she relaxed and did not pull away.
"When I was sorting at St. Mungo's," she said suddenly, "I worked briefly with children affected by memory charms. Not Ministry procedures—just the usual domestic accidents, obliviations gone wrong, that sort of thing." Her voice grew quieter. "Even those minor magical disruptions left scars in their developing minds. I can't imagine what the Quintessence Bind would do to a child's magical core, to their very sense of self."
The boat pitched again as they hit a patch of rougher water. Instinctively, Harry tightened his arms around Daphne to steady her, his hand finding hers on his lap. Their fingers intertwined naturally, seeking some sort of human connection in the face of the inhumanity they were uncovering.
"We'll find him," Harry promised, squeezing her hand gently. "We'll find all of them."
Daphne nodded, her eyes still fixed on the horizon ahead. "And then what?"
It was a question Harry had been avoiding—what justice could possibly exist for crimes of this magnitude? What healing could be offered to those whose very essence had been violated?
"I don't know," he admitted honestly. "But they deserve to be acknowledged. To have what was done to them brought into the light."
"Even if it implicates the Ministry you've worked for your entire adult life?" Daphne asked, finally turning to look at him directly.
Harry met her gaze steadily. "Especially then."
She studied him for a long moment, as if searching for something in his expression. Whatever she found there seemed to satisfy her, because she nodded once, decisively, and did not pull her hand away from his.
Together they faced forward as the mainland grew larger, the island of Azkaban fading into the mist behind them.
TBC.