Harry woke with a start, his hand automatically reaching for his wand before his mind had fully registered consciousness. Pale sunlight filtered through the curtains of his flat, casting long shadows across the sparse furnishings. For a moment, he lay still, trying to identify what had disturbed his sleep.
Then he felt it again—the unmistakable warmth against his thigh where the enchanted Galleon rested in his pocket. He'd fallen asleep fully clothed, too exhausted after leaving Daphne's flat late last night to do more than kick off his shoes before collapsing onto his bed.
Fumbling in his pocket, Harry extracted the coin, squinting at the tiny message that had replaced the serial number along its edge: "Diagon Alley. Now. Public. Keep D away."
Ron. And from the urgency of the message, something serious had happened.
Harry glanced at the clock on his bedside table: 7:08 AM. Whatever had occurred, it must have happened in the early hours of the morning. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the protest of muscles stiff from insufficient rest, and reached for his Auror robes before remembering he was no longer supposed to wear them.
"Damn it," he muttered, opting instead for a simple set of white shirt, black jeans, and black jacket that wouldn't stand out in a crowd.
As he hastily splashed water on his face and attempted to tame his perpetually unruly hair, Harry debated whether to contact Daphne. Ron's message had been clear—keep her away—but after everything they'd uncovered together, it felt wrong to exclude her.
"She deserves to know," he told his reflection, which looked back at him with tired eyes and a determined set to its jaw.
But Ron wouldn't have warned him off without good reason. If the scene was public, as the message suggested, it might be under heavy Ministry observation. Bringing Daphne could put her at risk. Until he knew what he was walking into, perhaps it was better to heed Ron's warning.
Decision made, Harry tucked his wand into his holster, grabbed a cold piece of toast from yesterday's breakfast, and disapparated with a crack.
-Break-
The first thing Harry noticed upon arriving at the designated apparition point near the Leaky Cauldron was the unusual quiet. Diagon Alley was typically bustling with early morning activity—shopkeepers raising shutters, delivery owls swooping between buildings, early shoppers chattering, and the smell of fresh bread wafting from the bakery. Instead, an eerie hush had fallen over the street, broken only by the low murmur of a crowd gathered further down.
As Harry made his way toward Flourish & Blotts, the crowd density increased, forcing him to navigate through clusters of whispering witches and wizards, many still in their nightclothes and dressing gowns. The mood was tense, fearful even—so different from the ordinary excitement of Diagon Alley.
"Excuse me," Harry murmured repeatedly, feeling the familiar sensation of eyes following him, recognizing who he was despite his attempts to remain inconspicuous.
"That's Potter," someone whispered. "Thought he'd been taken off Auror duty."
"Well he would be here, wouldn't he? Another murder just like the others..."
Another murder. Harry's pace quickened.
The crowd thinned abruptly as he approached a shimmering barrier of magical containment—standard Ministry procedure for securing a crime scene. Beyond it stood at least a dozen Aurors maintaining the perimeter, while within the cordoned area, a smaller group of officials huddled around something on the ground in front of Flourish & Blotts.
Harry's eyes were immediately drawn to the bookshop's facade, where large, scorched letters formed a message that stood out starkly against the stone:
YOU LET THEM SUFFER
"Bloody hell," Harry breathed.
"Took the words right out of my mouth, mate."
Harry turned to find Ron standing beside him, looking grim in his official Auror robes. Despite the public setting, Ron had positioned himself at the edge of the crowd, partially obscured by a display of cauldrons outside the adjacent shop.
"What happened?" Harry asked, keeping his voice low.
Ron's eyes darted around, checking who might be watching. "Victim's name is Eleanor Broadmoor. Shopkeeper found her about five o'clock this morning when he came to prepare for a special early book signing. Nearly had a heart attack, poor bloke."
"Broadmoor," Harry repeated. "That name was on Eliza's list. She mentioned a 'Broadmoor' as part of the Seven."
Ron nodded grimly. "Former social worker, specialized in placing magical orphans after the war. Apparently took a very keen interest in 'rehabilitation' for children from certain families."
"Ritualistically positioned?" Harry asked, unable to see clearly from his vantage point.
"Just like the others," Ron confirmed. "Only this time, no attempt to hide it. Quite the opposite, in fact." He gestured subtly toward the center of the cordoned area. "They wanted this to be seen."
Harry followed Ron's gaze. Through gaps in the cluster of officials, he could make out a body lying spread-eagle on the cobblestones. Unlike previous victims, who had been found in private locations, this display was deliberately public—positioned before one of the busiest shops in Diagon Alley.
"How did this even happen?" Harry asked suddenly, remembering their conversation days earlier. "I told you about them—Shafiq and Broadmoor. Those families were to be secured."
A flicker of discomfort crossed Ron's freckled face. "We tried, Harry. Protective detail was assigned to each, but..." He lowered his voice further. "It's impossible to maintain round-the-clock surveillance with our current resources. The Head won't authorize the manpower, says it's not cost-effective when we can't be certain they're targets. And it's not as if they are small families. There are dozens of branches in total."
"Not cost-effective?" Harry repeated incredulously, struggling to keep his voice down. "How many bodies will it take before it becomes 'cost-effective' enough? Four were already killed, and we already have the fifth!"
"I agree with you," Ron said, raising his hands slightly. "But I'm not the one making these decisions."
Harry scoffed, his frustration evident. "This is deliberate, Ron. Someone at the top doesn't want these murders investigated properly because they're afraid of what might come out."
"That's a serious accusation," Ron replied, though his tone suggested he wasn't dismissing the possibility.
"Look around you," Harry gestured subtly toward the crime scene. "Do you see anything unusual about the evidence collection procedure?"
Ron followed Harry's gaze, frowning slightly. "Now that you mention it..." His eyes narrowed as he observed the officials within the cordon. "Those blokes in the gray robes—don't recognize them from our department."
"Exactly," Harry said. "They're bypassing standard Auror protocols. The evidence is being collected by someone else entirely."
"They are authorized though, or they wouldn't have made in. I don't think I've ever seen them around though."
"Why now? And why these murders?" Harry suggested darkly. "Ron, these murders are connected to Project Halcyon. The people investigating are likely the same ones trying to cover up the program's existence."
Ron looked troubled. "This is getting dangerous, Harry. Not the usual Ministry politics."
"Tell me about the third rune," Harry said, changing tack slightly. "Was it visible? Like the others?"
Ron nodded. "Right palm this time. But there's something different about this one—it's modified somehow."
"How so?"
"Additional marking within the central loop. Almost like..." Ron hesitated, clearly uncomfortable discussing sensitive case details in public, even in hushed tones. "Like it's evolving. Progressing toward something."
Harry felt a chill that had nothing to do with the morning air. "A ritual sequence," he murmured. "That's what this is—each murder is part of a larger ritual."
Before Ron could respond, a commotion near the center of the cordoned area drew their attention. The cluster of officials had parted to admit a group of new arrivals—all wearing the formal robes of senior Ministry leadership. At their center walked Robards, the Head Auror for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, his perpetually worried expression replaced by an air of grim authority.
"Press conference," Ron muttered. "They're getting ahead of the story."
Sure enough, as Harry watched, several photographers and reporters were permitted past the containment barrier—a highly unusual breach of crime scene protocol.
"I need to get closer," Harry said, moving toward the barrier.
"Harry, wait—" Ron began, but Harry was already approaching the Auror maintaining the perimeter.
"Sir," the Auror acknowledged with a brief nod. Young, probably a recent Academy graduate, looking uncomfortable with his assignment. "I wasn't told you were on this case."
"I'm not," Harry replied honestly. "Just need to observe. Robards's orders." The lie came easily—a necessary evil.
The Auror hesitated, clearly conflicted between protocol and the legendary status of the man before him. "I shouldn't—"
"It's fine, Jenkins," another Auror interjected, an older witch Harry recognized as having worked with him in the past. "Let him through."
With a grateful nod to his former colleague, Harry slipped through the barrier, careful to keep to the periphery of the scene while moving closer to where Robards now stood beside the victim's body, addressing the small group of press.
"...appears to be connected to the previous incidents," Robards was saying, his voice pitched to project authority. "However, I want to assure the magical community that the Ministry has its best people working on this case."
Harry edged closer, positioning himself where he could finally get a clear view of the victim. Eleanor Broadmoor had been a small woman, perhaps in her sixties, with steel-gray hair arranged in what would have been a neat bun before death had disarranged it. Her eyes were open, fixed in an expression of shock rather than the resigned acceptance Harry had observed in Belby.
Most tellingly, her right palm was turned upward, displaying the runic mark that connected her to the previous victims. From his angle, Harry could see what Ron had mentioned—the rune retained its basic structure but contained an additional marking, a curved line that bisected the central whorl.
"Minister Shacklebolt is being kept fully informed," Robards continued. "And has authorized additional resources to resolve this matter quickly and discreetly."
"Discreetly?" A familiar, acid-sweet voice cut through the murmurs of the assembled reporters. "Rather hard to be discreet when there's a body in the middle of Diagon Alley with a message burned into the wall of our most beloved bookshop, wouldn't you say?"
Rita Skeeter, looking as predatory as ever with her jeweled spectacles and Quick-Quotes Quill hovering beside her, had somehow inserted herself into the group despite the Ministry's usual efforts to exclude her from official briefings.
Robards's expression tightened. "Ms. Skeeter, this briefing is for accredited press only—"
"Oh, I'm quite accredited," Rita replied with a sharp smile, flashing credentials that caused Robards to frown. "Tell me, Head Auror, would you care to comment on the rumors that these murders are related to controversial post-war rehabilitation methods applied to children of certain... political affiliations?"
A ripple of surprised murmurs spread through the assembled reporters. Harry felt his pulse quicken. How much did Rita know? And who was feeding her information?
"Those rumors are entirely unfounded," Robards replied, though Harry noted the slight delay before his response—a tell that the question had caught him off guard. "These are isolated incidents being investigated thoroughly but separately. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an active investigation to oversee."
He turned away from the press, effectively dismissing them, but Rita wasn't so easily deterred.
"What about Auror Potter?" she called, loud enough that several heads turned in Harry's direction. "Why has our most decorated Auror been removed from this high-profile case? Is it true he was getting too close to an uncomfortable truth?"
Robards's eyes found Harry in the crowd, narrowing with unmistakable irritation. "Auror Potter has not been removed from any case," he said smoothly. "As I'm sure he would tell you himself, he's been taking a well-deserved period of rest after years of exemplary service. The strain of constant vigilance can affect even our best and brightest."
The implication was clear to everyone present: Harry Potter was suffering from stress, possibly unstable, no longer reliable. It was a calculated move to undermine any claims Harry might make.
"Then what is he doing here, at this crime scene?" Rita pressed, her Quick-Quotes Quill scratching enthusiastically beside her.
All eyes turned to Harry, who found himself suddenly at the center of attention. He felt a surge of anger at Robards's transparent attempt to discredit him, but knew that losing his temper would only reinforce the narrative being spun.
"As Head Auror Robards said," Harry replied calmly, "I've been taking some time away from active duty. However, having worked the previous cases, I offered to consult if my expertise might be valuable. That's all."
"And has it been?" Rita asked, her eyes gleaming with the scent of a story. "Valuable, that is? Or have you been sidelined because you discovered something someone wants kept quiet?"
Before Harry could respond, Robards stepped forward. "Thank you all for your time," he said firmly. "As you can appreciate, we have a crime scene to process, and speculation only hinders that work. Auror Weasley will escort Mr. Potter from the scene, and the rest of you are asked to return behind the containment barrier."
Ron appeared at Harry's side, as if summoned by the mention of his name. "Come on, mate," he muttered. "Not the place for this."
Recognizing the wisdom in a strategic retreat, Harry allowed Ron to guide him away from the scene, feeling Robards's eyes boring into his back.
"Well, that was subtle," Harry murmured as they passed back through the containment barrier.
"About as subtle as a bludger to the head," Ron agreed. "But he made his point clear enough. You're officially off the case now."
"Was I ever officially on it?" Harry asked wryly.
"Technicalities," Ron shrugged. "Listen, Hermione's waiting at the Leaky Cauldron. She's been up all night researching something about binding rituals. Join us for breakfast?"
Harry hesitated, torn between the need to inform Daphne about this latest development and the pull of the possible information Hermione might have uncovered.
"She said to tell you she's found something about the rune sequence," Ron added, knowing exactly how to tip the balance.
"Lead the way," Harry decided. He could contact Daphne afterward.
As they walked back toward the Leaky Cauldron, leaving the murmuring crowd and cordoned scene behind, Harry's mind raced with connections and implications. The public nature of this murder marked a significant escalation—the killer was no longer content to work in shadows.
"Ron," he said suddenly, "the message on the wall—'You let them suffer.' What do you make of it?"
Ron glanced around before answering, ensuring they weren't overheard. "Seems pretty clear, doesn't it? Whoever's doing this blames these people for suffering caused to others."
"Children," Harry specified. "Eleanor Broadmoor was responsible for placing magical orphans after the war. According to Eliza, she was involved in selecting which ones would undergo the binding ritual."
"Bloody hell," Ron muttered. "So we're really looking at revenge killings?"
"That's what it looks like," Harry confirmed. "But there's more to it than simple vengeance. The ritual aspect, the runes—it's building toward something."
They had reached the Leaky Cauldron, which was unusually empty for breakfast time—most of its regular patrons likely drawn to the commotion in Diagon Alley. In a back corner, far from the few occupied tables, Hermione sat surrounded by books and parchments, a half-eaten plate of toast pushed to one side.
She looked up as they approached, her expression brightening momentarily before turning serious again. "It's happened again, hasn't it? That's why you disappeared at the crack of dawn."
"Eleanor Broadmoor," Harry confirmed, sliding into the seat opposite her. "Found in front of Flourish & Blotts. Very public, very intentional."
"With another message," Ron added, signaling to Tom for coffee. "Burned right into the wall: 'You let them suffer.'"
Hermione's brow furrowed. "That's different from the others. More... accusatory."
"It feels like escalation," Harry agreed. "Like the killer is moving past personal revenge to making a public statement."
"They're forcing the Ministry's hand," Hermione said thoughtfully. "A murder like that can't be kept quiet."
"Well, they'll try their best, that's for sure," Harry muttered, earning a frown from her.
"What about the rune?" she asked, leaning forward with intense focus. "Was it the same pattern?"
"Similar but altered," Harry replied. "Ron said there was an additional marking within the central loop—like the sequence is progressing."
Hermione nodded as if this confirmed something she already suspected. She shuffled through several sheets of parchment before extracting one covered in hand-drawn runic symbols.
"I've been researching binding runes, specifically those used in Old Norse rituals of power transference," she explained, pushing the parchment toward Harry and Ron. "Look at this sequence."
The sheet showed three runic symbols arranged in a progression, each slightly more complex than the last. The third closely resembled what Harry had glimpsed on Eleanor Broadmoor's palm.
"It's part of a seven-stage ritual," Hermione continued. "Used historically to transfer magical essence from one vessel to another."
"Seven stages," Harry repeated, meeting Ron's eyes across the table. "The Seven. That can't be coincidence."
"What kind of 'magical essence' are we talking about here?" Ron asked, frowning at the parchment.
"That's where it gets complicated," Hermione admitted. "The ancient texts are deliberately vague, probably to prevent misuse. But from what I can piece together, it was typically used in cases where a powerful practitioner was dying and wanted to transfer their knowledge or abilities to a chosen successor."
"Or in cases where someone wanted to reclaim what was taken from them," Harry suggested grimly.
Hermione nodded slowly. "If the Quintessence Bind works by suppressing certain magical abilities, then theoretically, this ritual could be a way to... reclaim them."
"But why kill for it?" Ron asked. "Why not just perform the ritual on yourself?"
"Because it requires the original casters," Harry realized, the pieces falling into place. "The Seven who performed the binding—their magical signatures would be intrinsically linked to whatever they suppressed. To reverse it—"
"You'd need to use them as conduits," Hermione finished. "Their deaths would release the magical connection, allowing the ritual to redirect the bound essence back to its original source."
The implication hung heavy in the air between them. Whoever was committing these murders wasn't just seeking revenge—they were systematically reclaiming something that had been taken from them.
"Corvus," Harry murmured.
"Who?" Hermione and Ron asked simultaneously.
"A name both Isla and Eliza mentioned," Harry explained. "A boy who supposedly found a flaw in the binding ritual—who actually managed to redirect it somehow during the procedure."
Ron looked skeptical. "That sounds impossible."
"According to Daphne, it should be," Harry agreed. "Yet Eliza's memory showed it happening."
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of two plates piled with the Leaky Cauldron's hearty breakfast fare, followed by a pot of coffee that Tom levitated to their table with practiced ease.
"On the house," the old barkeeper muttered with a nod toward Harry. "Least I can do with that mess down the street. Brings bad business, murder does."
"Thanks, Tom," Harry said, genuinely appreciative of the gesture.
As Tom shuffled away, Harry turned back to find both Ron and Hermione staring past him, their expressions suddenly tense. Harry's hand instinctively moved toward his wand.
"Don't turn around immediately," Hermione murmured, "but Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini just walked in, and they're heading straight for us."
Harry felt a prickle of awareness between his shoulder blades—the sensation of being watched. He casually shifted in his seat, allowing him to glance toward the door without being obvious.
Theodore Nott was much as Harry remembered him from Hogwarts—tall, slender, with sharp features that gave him a perpetually thoughtful expression. Beside him, Blaise Zabini carried himself with the same aristocratic poise he'd always possessed, though his customary look of bored disdain seemed replaced by something more urgent.
Both men wore expensive robes in conservative cuts, the kind that never went out of style among old wizarding families. They paused briefly upon noticing Harry's gaze, then continued their approach with determined strides.
"Potter," Nott acknowledged as they reached the table. His voice was lower than Harry remembered, his manner more grave. "Weasley. Granger. We need to talk."
Ron's posture had stiffened noticeably. "About what, exactly?"
"About what's happening in Diagon Alley," Zabini replied smoothly. "And why we've been conducting our own investigation into the disappearance of pure-blood children after the war."
A heavy silence fell over the table. Harry studied the two former Slytherins carefully, searching for any hint of deception. Finding none, he made a decision.
"Have a seat," he offered, gesturing to the empty chairs at their table. "Though I should warn you, we're not exactly in the Ministry's good graces at the moment."
"That makes two of us, then," Nott replied with a humorless smile, pulling out a chair. "Or four, I suppose."
As Zabini joined them, Harry discreetly cast privacy charms around their table—a standard set that would prevent eavesdropping while making the conversation appear ordinary to casual observers.
"You mentioned an investigation," Harry prompted once the charms were in place.
Nott and Zabini exchanged a glance, seemingly deciding who would take the lead. After a moment, Nott leaned forward, his voice low despite the privacy charms.
"After the war, several children from old families disappeared into the system," he began without preamble. "Officially, they were placed with distant relatives or in specialized care facilities while their parents were being processed through the justice system."
"Most were never returned," Zabini added. "Even after their families were cleared, or had served their sentences."
"Some of those families weren't exactly innocent," Ron pointed out, a hint of his old animosity toward Slytherins coloring his tone.
"Perhaps not," Nott conceded. "But their children were. And regardless of what their parents did, what happened to those children wasn't justice—it was something else entirely."
"Which families?" Harry asked, already suspecting the answer.
"Carrow. Travers. Avery. Rowle." Nott listed them methodically. "My own distant cousins. Zabini's second cousins once removed."
"That's why we're here," Zabini interjected. "Ellis Travers. Morgan Pierce. Marcus Belby. Adrian Pucey. And now Eleanor Broadmoor. Five murders in quick succession, all connected in some manner to the Department of Children's Magical Welfare? It's not coincidence."
Harry exchanged glances with Ron and Hermione. They had been careful to keep the details of their investigation quiet, yet here were Nott and Zabini, independently reaching similar conclusions.
"What exactly do you know?" Hermione asked, her initial wariness giving way to curiosity.
Nott reached into his robes and withdrew a slim folder, which he placed carefully on the table between them. "We know that certain children were classified as 'high risk' based on their family connections or magical potential. We know they were subjected to experimental treatments designed to 'rehabilitate' them."
"And we know," Zabini continued, his usual smooth demeanor cracking slightly to reveal genuine anger, "that when some didn't respond to these treatments as expected, they were taken somewhere else entirely."
Harry felt a chill at the perfect alignment with what they had learned from Malcolm and Eliza. "How did you find this out?"
"Money still talks, Potter, even in the 'reformed' Ministry," Zabini replied with a cynical arch of his eyebrow. "And when that failed, there were other methods."
"What Blaise means," Nott clarified, seeing Ron's deepening frown, "is that we hired private investigators, conducted interviews with former Ministry employees, and followed paper trails. All legally, if not exactly with the Ministry's blessing."
"And what did you find?" Harry asked.
Nott's expression turned solemn as he placed his hand on the folder. "We found where they took the ones who didn't respond to treatment."
Slowly, he opened the folder to reveal several magical photographs. The topmost showed an aerial view of what appeared to be a secluded estate—a manor house surrounded by extensive gardens, all enclosed within high stone walls.
"Halcyon Garden," Nott said, tapping the photograph. "Officially listed as a 'specialized therapeutic retreat' for magically troubled youth. Unofficially..."
"A detention facility," Zabini finished. "For children deemed too 'damaged' or 'resistant' to be released back into magical society."
Harry felt his stomach twist as he studied the photograph. The manor looked peaceful enough from a distance—even beautiful with its neatly-trimmed grounds and elegant architecture. Yet something about it reminded him uncomfortably of Malfoy Manor during its occupation by Voldemort—a place of hidden horrors behind a veneer of aristocratic refinement.
"This place still exists?" Hermione asked, her voice tight with barely contained outrage.
"It was decommissioned a few years ago," Nott replied. "Or so the official record states. Whether that's true..." He shrugged slightly. "Our sources couldn't confirm."
"Why are you bringing this to us?" Harry asked, looking up from the photographs to study Nott's face. "Why now?"
Something flashed in Nott's usually guarded expression—a brief glimpse of genuine emotion that caught Harry by surprise.
"Because William Nott was my cousin," he said quietly. "Because he died trying to remember what they took from him. And because whoever is killing these people has information I need."
"You think the murders are connected to this facility?" Ron asked.
"We know they are," Zabini confirmed. "Eleanor Broadmoor was responsible for referring children to the program. Ellis Travers developed the initial classification system. And Pierce—" he tapped another photograph showing a severe-looking wizard in formal robes "—specialized in the runic components of whatever treatments they were performing."
Harry leaned back in his chair, absorbing this new information and reconciling everything with what he already knew. "So you both have been tracking this program for what, years?"
"Since William's death," Nott confirmed. "It was ruled accidental, but..." He hesitated, then continued more firmly. "He somehow sent me a letter the week before. Said he'd been having dreams—memories returning in fragments. Said someone was helping them remember."
"Helping who remember?" Hermione asked.
"The others like him," Nott replied simply. "The ones who survived the procedures."
A heavy silence fell over the table as the implications settled around them. Harry studied Nott and Zabini with new eyes, seeing beyond the Slytherin classmates he'd barely known to the men they'd become—driven by the same need for justice that motivated his own investigation.
"It hasn't been easy for us to come to you like this, Potter," Zabini said after a moment, his usual smooth facade cracking further to reveal something raw underneath. "But we're out of options. The Ministry won't acknowledge what happened, and now people are dying because of it."
"We're asking you to get to the bottom of this," Nott added, his gaze intense. "Not as an Auror—clearly the Ministry has removed that option—but as Harry Potter. As someone who's never been afraid to challenge authority when it's wrong."
The naked appeal in Nott's voice—from a man Harry had always known to be private and reserved—spoke volumes about their desperation. Beside him, Ron had lost his initial skepticism, replaced by the solemn concentration he always displayed when confronted with genuine injustice.
"I'm already looking into it," Harry said simply. "Have been for weeks."
"With help," Hermione added, including Daphne, herself and Ron in the statement.
Nott's tense posture relaxed slightly. "Then you've found the same connections we have."
"And more," Harry confirmed. "We've spoken with survivors of the program. They've shared memories, details about the procedures."
"Who?" Zabini asked sharply. "Which survivors?"
Harry hesitated, unwilling to endanger Malcolm or Eliza by sharing their identities.
"We can't disclose that," Hermione answered for him. "For their protection."
Nott nodded, accepting this limitation. "Fair enough. But if they're the ones who've been helping the others remember..."
"That would explain the timing," Zabini mused. "If suppressed memories are returning..."
"And if one particular survivor remembered enough to piece together what was done to them," Harry continued the thought, "they might seek justice—or revenge—against those responsible."
"Corvus," Nott said suddenly.
Harry felt as if the air had been knocked from his lungs. "What did you say?"
"Corvus," Nott repeated, studying Harry's reaction with keen interest. "It was something William mentioned in his last letter before he died. Said there was a boy they called Corvus who found a way to resist the treatments."
"Who is he?" Harry asked urgently. "Did William tell you anything else about him?"
Nott shook his head. "Just the name. And that the administrators feared him—that he understood their magic better than they did themselves."
Another piece of the puzzle, slotting perfectly into place. Harry exchanged significant glances with Ron and Hermione, all thinking the same thing: they were getting closer to the truth.
"We should coordinate what we know," Hermione suggested after a moment. "Compare notes."
"Agreed," Nott said, nodding. "But not here. Too public, despite the privacy charms."
"The Hog's Head," Harry suggested. "Tomorrow evening. Bring everything you've gathered."
"We'll be there," Zabini confirmed. "And Potter..." he hesitated, seeming to struggle with what he wanted to say next. "Thank you. For taking this seriously. I know we weren't... friends at Hogwarts."
"That was a long time ago," Harry replied simply. "Some things are more important than old school rivalries."
A flicker of respect crossed Zabini's usually guarded features. "Indeed they are."
As the two former Slytherins rose to leave, Nott paused, his hand still resting on the folder of photographs. "Keep these," he said. "Study them. The answers we're all looking for—I think they're hidden somewhere in that place."
"Halcyon Garden," Harry murmured, accepting the folder with a nod of thanks.
When Nott and Zabini had departed, the privacy charms dissipating in their wake, Harry turned back to find Ron and Hermione watching him with matching expressions of somber determination.
"Well," Ron said, breaking the silence, "I didn't see that coming."
"No," Harry agreed. "But it confirms what we already suspected. This goes deeper than a few isolated incidents of memory manipulation."
"It was systematic," Hermione said, her voice tight with suppressed anger. "An organized program targeting specific children, with Ministry approval."
"And now someone's systematically eliminating those responsible," Harry concluded, tapping the folder containing the photographs of Halcyon Garden. "Five down, two to go."
"If they're following the Seven," Ron pointed out. "And if Hermione's right about the ritual sequence..."
"Then we have two more murders to prevent," Harry finished grimly. "And a ritual to stop before it reaches completion."
He opened the folder again, studying the peaceful-looking manor house in the photograph. Somewhere within those elegant walls lay answers about Project Halcyon, the Quintessence Bind, and the mysterious figure known as Corvus. And Harry was determined to find them before the Ministry could bury the truth permanently—or before the next victim fell to a killer seeking both justice and something far more dangerous: the reclamation of bound power.
"I need to contact Daphne," he said, closing the folder. "She needs to know about this development."
"Harry," Hermione cautioned, "if the Ministry is watching you as closely as it seems, they're likely monitoring your communications too."
"I'll be careful," Harry promised. "But she's as involved in this as we are now. And she might see connections in these photographs that we're missing."
As they finished their breakfast, making plans in hushed tones despite the renewed privacy charms, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that events were accelerating toward an inevitable confrontation—not just with the killer stalking the Seven, but with the very institutions that had enabled the horrors they were uncovering.
Eleanor Broadmoor's body, displayed for all to see in the heart of wizarding London, wasn't just a murder—it was a declaration of war against secrets too long buried. And the message scorched into stone—YOU LET THEM SUFFER—wasn't just an accusation against the dead.
It was a warning to the living.
-Break-
Harry apparated directly into Daphne's flat, the familiar sensation of compression giving way to the warm, inviting scent of herbs and roasted vegetables. It was a stark contrast to the grim scene he'd left behind in Diagon Alley and the discussion afterward, a small sense of normalcy in a day that had been anything but.
Daphne looked up from the kitchen counter, a wooden spoon in one hand as she stirred something in a simmering pot. Her blonde hair was tied back in a loose ponytail, and she wore a simple oversized sweater over slim trousers—casual, comfortable, and very different from her usual polished appearance.
"You look like you've had quite a day," she observed, her expression shifting from welcoming to concerned as she took in his exhausted stance. "Have a seat. I'll be done in a minute."
Harry nodded gratefully, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over one of the chairs at her small dining table.
"Can I help with anything?" he asked, despite knowing the answer.
"Just sit," she replied with a small smile. "You look like you're about to fall over."
Instead of taking a seat, Harry leaned against the edge of the table, watching as Daphne moved efficiently around her kitchen. There was something oddly comforting about observing her in this domestic setting—her movements relaxed, so different from the stress that had lately become the new normal for them.
A minute later, she approached with two plates levitating in front of her, each bearing what appeared to be some kind of risotto studded with wild mushrooms and herbs. The aroma was rich and earthy, reminding Harry that he'd barely touched the breakfast at the Leaky Cauldron or eaten anything beyond the fish and chips he'd grabbed a few hours ago.
"Dig in," she said, settling the plates on the table and summoning two glasses and a bottle of white wine from the counter. "You can tell me everything while we eat."
Harry didn't need to be told twice. He took a seat across from her and sampled the risotto, letting the flavors wash over his palate—creamy, savory, with hints of thyme and what he identified as white wine.
"This is amazing," he said truthfully.
"Food always tastes better when someone else cooks it," Daphne replied with a hint of a smile. "Now, tell me what happened. Your message was rather cryptic."
Harry took a sip of the wine she'd poured, gathering his thoughts. "There's been another murder," he began without preamble. "Eleanor Broadmoor."
Daphne's fork paused halfway to her mouth. "The social worker? We did suspect she could be the one from Eliza's list."
"The very same," Harry confirmed. "Found in front of Flourish & Blotts early this morning. Very public."
"That's a significant escalation," Daphne noted, her analytical mind immediately grasping the implications. "The previous murders were all discovered in private locations."
"That's not all," Harry continued, taking another bite before explaining. "They left a message burned into the wall of the shop: 'YOU LET THEM SUFFER.' In capital letters, impossible to miss."
Daphne's eyes widened slightly. "They're not just seeking revenge anymore. They're making a statement."
"Exactly," Harry nodded. "And the rune on her palm—it was modified. Hermione thinks it's part of a progressive ritual sequence. Seven stages for the Seven."
"A ritual to reverse the binding," Daphne murmured, her gaze turning inward as she processed this. "That's... theoretically possible, I suppose. But incredibly dangerous. The magical backlash alone could—"
"Kill the person attempting it," Harry finished. "Unless they knew exactly what they were doing. Unless they had somehow figured out the intricacies of the binding ritual itself."
"Corvus," Daphne said quietly.
Harry's eyes snapped to hers. "Yes. And that's not all. After the scene at Diagon Alley, I met with Ron and Hermione at the Leaky Cauldron. We were joined by Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini."
That got her attention. Daphne set down her fork, her full focus now on Harry. "Nott and Zabini? What did they want?"
"They've been conducting their own investigation," Harry explained. "As you know, Nott's cousin William was one of the children affected by Project Halcyon. He died years ago, but before his death, he sent Nott a letter mentioning that his memories were returning in fragments. And he mentioned Corvus."
"So they know about the project," Daphne said, her voice carefully neutral.
"They know more than that," Harry replied, reaching into his pocket to retrieve the folder Nott had given him. He opened it on the table between their plates, revealing the photograph of Halcyon Garden. "They found where the project was physically located."
Daphne stared at the photograph keenly. "Looks big enough to match what we saw in the memories."
Harry nodded slowly. "Nott and Zabini believe this is where they took the children who didn't respond to the initial treatments—the ones who resisted the binding."
"The strongest ones," Daphne murmured. "The ones they feared most."
They ate in silence for a moment, the implications hanging in the air between them. Harry found himself oddly grateful for the simple normalcy of sharing a meal.
"What are you thinking?" Daphne asked eventually, refilling their wine glasses.
Harry sighed, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair. "That we need to find out who's next. Two more of the Seven remain, and whoever's behind these killings is accelerating."
"And becoming more brazen," Daphne added. "The public nature of Broadmoor's murder suggests they're no longer concerned about being caught."
"Or they want to be caught," Harry countered. "Or at least, they want their message to be heard."
Daphne tilted her head thoughtfully. "It's possible. The message on the wall wasn't just for Broadmoor—it was for everyone who might have known about the program and did nothing."
"Like an accusation against the entire wizarding world," Harry mused.
"For looking the other way while children suffered," Daphne completed.
"Nott and Zabini want to meet tomorrow at the Hog's Head," he said, changing tack slightly. "To compare notes, coordinate what we know."
"And you want me there," Daphne surmised.
"I do," Harry confirmed. "You understand the theoretical aspects of the binding better than any of us. And..." he hesitated, then continued, "I trust your judgment. Your perspective."
Something softened in Daphne's expression—a subtle change that might have been missed by someone who didn't know her as well as Harry had come to over these past weeks.
"I'll be there," she promised. "Though I'm not sure how Nott and Zabini will feel about working with me. We weren't exactly... cozy, even though we all were in the same house."
"They'll manage," Harry said with a hint of a smile. "Some things are more important than whatever happened in the past."
"You've changed, Harry," Daphne observed, her tone lighter than before. "The Harry I knew at Hogwarts would never have considered working with Slytherins."
"Maybe I've grown up," Harry shrugged. "Or maybe I've just learned that sorting people into four arbitrary categories at age eleven isn't the best basis for lifelong judgments."
Daphne let out a chuckle, easing some of the tension and worry. "I'll drink to that."
Harry smiled as they clinked glasses, and for a brief moment, the weight of murders and rituals and Ministry conspiracies seemed to lift from their shoulders. They were just two people sharing a meal, finding unexpected common ground.
"There's something else," Harry said after they'd finished eating, reluctant to break the peaceful interlude but knowing he needed to. "Hermione thinks the ritual sequence the killer is following is designed to transfer magical essence—specifically, to reclaim what was bound."
Daphne's expression grew serious again. "If that's true, then these aren't just revenge killings. They're purposeful steps in a larger magic."
"A dangerous magic," Harry emphasized. "If someone is attempting to reclaim bound powers through ritualistic murder..."
"The result could be catastrophic," Daphne finished. "Especially if the binding was done improperly to begin with, which seems likely given what we've learned about Project Halcyon's hasty implementation."
"So we have two problems," Harry summarized. "Preventing the next two murders, and stopping whatever magical consequence might result if the ritual completes."
Daphne nodded, rising to clear their plates. "And identifying who's behind it all. Though I suspect we both have the same candidate in mind."
"Corvus," Harry agreed.
"The child who understood the magic better than its creators," Daphne said, sending the dishes to wash themselves in the sink with a casual flick of her wand. "The question is, what does he want? Just his own powers restored, or something more?"
Harry stood too, moving to help despite her silent protests. "That's what worries me. The scale of this—the public nature of the latest killing—it feels like more than personal vengeance."
"It feels like a reckoning," Daphne said quietly.
They worked side by side for a few minutes, clearing the table and putting things away, falling into an easy rhythm. The simple, shared task provided a moment of calm—a brief respite before they would have to venture back into the darkness of the investigation.
When they finished, Daphne leaned against the counter, studying Harry with an expression he couldn't quite read. "You should stay here tonight," she said finally, surprising him. "If the Ministry is alienating you like this and watching you as closely as you think, your flat might not be safe."
Harry considered her offer, and the thought of returning to his empty flat, with its sparse furnishings and lingering sense of impermanence, held little appeal compared to the warmth and safety Daphne's space offered.
"Alright," he agreed simply. "Thank you."
Something in the air between them shifted subtly—not awkwardness, but a new awareness, an acknowledgment of trust that had grown between them. Outside, the last light of day faded into darkness, but within the flat, the soft glow of enchanted lamps cast gentle shadows across Daphne's features as she smiled.
"Good," she said with a small smile, one that Harry returned. Together, they made their way to the spare bedroom that held all their analysis of the case and began to arrange the new evidence they'd received from Nott and Zabini.
They exchanged glances as they worked, and it took them roughly fifteen minutes to sort everything out. Once they were done, they stood together and examined their handiwork critically. They glanced at each other once they were certain things were in order and made their way out of the room.
Daphne led him to the guest bedroom, watching as he looked around.
"It's not much, but it should do."
"No, it's good," Harry assured her with a nod.
"I'll see you tomorrow then," Daphne said, her hand on the doorknob. With a parting smile, she walked out and shut the door behind her.
Harry took a seat on the bed and released a soft sigh, his eyes trained on the ceiling. He couldn't help but wonder how things had changed so drastically that he now found himself spending the night in a flat that belonged to Daphne Greengrass of all people. It showed a level of trust he's never thought would be possible between them, but somehow, it had developed in only a few weeks.
Releasing a deep breath, Harry transfigured his clothes into something more comfortable and slid up the bed, closing his eyes.
Unbeknownst to him, the same thoughts were running through Daphne's head in the other room who merely shook her head as she got ready for bed. In all the turmoil, they had found something neither had expected to find in the other: Understanding.
TBC.
Visit patreon.com/TheBlackEarl to read more of my work. Chapter 14 of this fic is already up over there. Thanks for reading!