Three days had passed since their dangerous foray into the damaged memory fragments. Three days of intensive research, carefully worded inquiries, and strategic planning—all while maintaining the pretense that Harry was following Robards' direct order to step away from the investigation.
The morning light filtered through Daphne's kitchen window as Harry nursed a cup of strong tea. Sleep had been elusive last night, his mind racing with fragments of information and half-formed theories. The memory of children with vacant expressions haunted him, reminding him uncomfortably of his own childhood traumas.
The crack of apparition outside the flat's protective wards alerted him. Harry was on his feet instantly, his wand drawn.
"It's me," Daphne called through the door, her voice accompanied by three precise knocks—their agreed-upon signal.
Harry opened the door, quickly ushering her inside before resetting the wards. "Any trouble?"
"None," Daphne replied, looking simultaneously exhausted and exhilarated. She carried a leather-bound journal clutched tightly to her chest like a precious artifact. "I found it."
"The records?" Harry asked, unable to keep the eagerness from his voice.
Daphne nodded, moving to the kitchen table and carefully placing the journal down. "Patient transfer records from St. Mungo's archives, 1998 through 2000. Every child who passed through Halcyon House's 'specialized care program' and their subsequent placements."
Harry joined her at the table, watching as she reverently opened the journal. The pages were filled with meticulous medical notations, patient identifiers, and transfer authorizations. The clinical language did nothing to disguise the horror of what they documented.
"How did you get this out? I thought the archives were secured."
A small, satisfied smile crossed Daphne's face. "Being Acting Chief of Magical Trauma has its advantages. I signed it out under the pretext of reviewing historical approaches to war trauma for a research paper."
"And no one questioned it?"
"The archivist gave me an odd look," Daphne admitted, "but my credentials are impeccable, and I've published on similar topics before. It's a perfectly reasonable request."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "You've been planning this excuse for a while, haven't you?"
"Since the moment we realized the Ministry was covering something up," she confirmed, not bothering to deny it. "Always have a plausible explanation ready, Mr. Potter. It's rule one of operating in politically sensitive environments."
"Very Slytherin of you," Harry remarked, though the comment held no malice.
"Indeed. And very effective," Daphne replied, tapping the journal with her wand. The pages began to flip rapidly, stopping at a section marked with a green tab. "Here. The complete roster of children in the program, including their diagnostic codes and treatment protocols."
Harry leaned forward, scanning the list of names. "Some of these names I recognize. Carrow, Baddock... they had relatives in Slytherin, right?"
Daphne nodded, her expression tightening. "Yes. No surprise that many were Slytherins. The program specifically targeted children from families with Death Eater connections."
"Under the guise of 'rehabilitation,'" Harry said bitterly.
"Exactly." Daphne's finger traced down the list of names. "Twenty-three children in total, ranging from HC-1 to HC-5 classification. The higher the number, the more... intensive the treatments."
Harry reached into his pocket and produced a small roll of parchment. "I managed to access some Ministry records. Not the sealed files, but personnel assignments for the Halcyon House project."
Daphne raised an eyebrow. "I thought Robards barred you from the investigation?"
"He did," Harry acknowledged with a slight smirk. "But he didn't rescind my access permissions to the archives. And my status as 'The Chosen One' still opens doors that might otherwise remain closed."
"So you charmed your way past security," Daphne translated, an amused glint in her eyes.
"I prefer to think of it as leveraging available resources," Harry replied, unrolling the parchment. "Here's everyone officially assigned to the project. Cross-reference with the victims?"
For the next hour, they meticulously compared the lists, creating a comprehensive picture of the program's structure and participants. Daphne's analytical approach complemented Harry's more intuitive connections, leading them to discoveries neither might have made alone.
"Look at this," Daphne said eventually, pointing to notations beside several names on the patient list. "These children—seven of them, all HC-4 or HC-5—have notations about 'binding protocols.' And this symbol here," she indicated a small rune beside each name, "that's the same as one from the drawing we saw in the memory. Part of the Quintessence Bind."
Harry frowned. "So they were using this forbidden ritual on children deemed 'high risk'?"
"It appears so," Daphne confirmed grimly. "And based on these follow-up notes, the results were... unpredictable."
"What about their current status?" Harry asked, scanning the transfer records. "Where did they end up after Halcyon House closed?"
Daphne flipped to another section of the journal. "That's where things get interesting. Of the twenty-three children who received experimental treatments, I can only confirm six are definitely alive and still in Britain."
"Six?" Harry repeated, surprised. "What about the others?"
"Different fates," Daphne replied, her voice carefully neutral, though Harry could detect the underlying concern. "Seven are listed as 'relocated internationally'—no further details provided. Four were declared 'non-responsive to treatment' and transferred to specialized containment facilities. Three died during treatment—officially recorded as complications from pre-existing war trauma."
"And the last three?" Harry prompted when she paused.
"Status unknown," Daphne said softly. "They simply... disappeared from the records after the program was terminated in 2000."
Harry let out a slow breath, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair. "And of the six we can locate?"
"All appear to be living relatively normal lives," Daphne said, consulting her notes. "At least on the surface. Two hold Ministry positions. One works in Diagon Alley. One is a recluse in Wales. Two are unemployed but regularly report to a Ministry supervision program."
Harry tapped the table thoughtfully. "We need to speak with them. All of them. If someone is hunting down people connected to Halcyon House, they could be in danger. And they might know something about who's behind these killings."
"Or one of them could be the killer," Daphne pointed out. "If what was done to them was as traumatic as the memory fragments suggest, revenge would be a powerful motive."
"True." Harry studied the list again. "Let's prioritize. Which of them showed the most severe symptoms?"
Daphne consulted the journal again. "Malcolm Baddock and Isla Carrow were both classified HC-5, the highest risk category. Both showed 'significant resistance' to the binding protocols, according to these notes."
"Start with them, then," Harry decided. "Baddock works at the Ministry, right? Department of Magical Transportation?"
"Yes," Daphne confirmed. "Junior clerk in the Floo Network Authority. Keeps a low profile by all accounts."
"And Isla Carrow? Related to the Death Eater twins?"
"Their niece," Daphne said with a nod. "She was twelve when she entered the program. Now lives in a remote cottage in Wales. Supposedly under voluntary isolation, though these notes suggest the Ministry 'recommended' her seclusion."
Harry stood, determination written across his features. "You said Baddock works at the Ministry? Let's start there. Less chance of him running if we approach him at work."
"Agreed," Daphne said, rising as well. "But we need to be careful. If the Ministry is watching either of us..."
"We'll make it look like a casual encounter," Harry assured her. "I know a quiet spot near the Floo Network Office where we can speak privately."
-Break-
The Ministry of Magic buzzed with its usual mid-morning activity as Harry and Daphne made their way through the Atrium. They had arrived separately—Harry through the main entrance, Daphne through the St. Mungo's connection—and met casually by the fountain as if by happenstance.
"Healer Greengrass," Harry greeted her formally, aware of the curious glances they were receiving. "Thank you for consulting on this case. Shall we?"
"Of course, Auror Potter," Daphne replied with equal formality, falling into step beside him as they headed for the lifts.
They maintained professional small talk as they descended to Level Six, where the Department of Magical Transportation was located. Harry led the way past the main offices toward a small courtyard that had been created for employees to take breaks. This early in the day, it was deserted.
"The Floo Office opens at nine," Harry explained quietly. "Baddock should be arriving through that corridor in the next few minutes."
Sure enough, barely five minutes later, a slender wizard in standard Ministry robes appeared in the corridor. Malcolm Baddock had grown from the nervous first-year Daphne vaguely remembered to a thin man with perpetually hunched shoulders and a guarded expression. Even from a distance, they could see the wariness in his movements—the way his eyes darted around the corridor as if expecting trouble from any direction.
Harry stepped into his path, careful to keep his posture non-threatening. "Mr. Baddock? Harry Potter. I was hoping for a moment of your time."
Baddock froze, his eyes widening with recognition and immediate fear. "A-Auror Potter," he stammered, taking a half-step backward. "I—what's this about?"
"Just a few questions," Harry assured him, gesturing to Daphne who had approached more slowly. "This is Healer Greengrass from St. Mungo's. Perhaps we could speak privately? It won't take long."
Baddock's gaze flew to Daphne, and Harry saw a flash of recognition. "Greengrass? You were... you were in my house. Few years ahead."
"That's right," Daphne confirmed gently. "We're not here to cause trouble. We just need information about something that might affect your safety."
Baddock's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "What kind of information?"
"Halcyon House," Harry said quietly, watching carefully for the reaction.
The effect was immediate and alarming. Baddock's face drained of color, and he took another step back, his shoulders hitting the wall behind him. "I don't—I can't—" he struggled, his breathing becoming rapid and shallow. "Not supposed to talk about that."
Harry and Daphne exchanged concerned glances. "Mr. Baddock," Daphne said gently, "we know about the program. We know what happened there."
"No," Baddock whispered, shaking his head vehemently. "You don't. Nobody does. Nobody can know." His right hand began to tremble, then his entire arm. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead.
Harry took a cautious step closer. "People connected to Halcyon House are dying, Baddock. We're trying to protect those who might be at risk."
Baddock let out a choked laugh that held no humor. "Protect?" he repeated bitterly. "Like they protected us? No one can protect us from—" He cut himself off abruptly, gasping as if in sudden pain. His trembling intensified, spreading from his arm to his entire body.
"He's having an episode," Daphne said sharply, moving forward with professional urgency. "Mr. Baddock, I need you to breathe slowly. Focus on my voice."
Alas, Baddock's condition deteriorated rapidly. His eyes rolled back slightly, and a thin line of blood appeared at his nostril. Most alarming, however, was the faint silvery glow that seemed to emanate from beneath his skin—pulsing in rhythm with his rapid heartbeat.
"The binding," Daphne said urgently. "It's activating as a defense mechanism. Harry, we need privacy now."
Harry quickly cast a powerful Notice-Me-Not charm around them, followed by a Muffliato. "What's happening to him?"
"The Quintessence Bind isn't just about memory," Daphne explained hurriedly, guiding Baddock to sit on a nearby bench. "It creates safeguards against the subject revealing information about the binding itself. He's experiencing a magical equivalent of a panic attack."
She knelt before Baddock, taking his trembling hands in hers. "Mr. Baddock, listen to me. I'm going to help you through this. I need you to look into my eyes."
The terrified young man managed to focus on her, his breathing still erratic.
"Legilimens," Daphne whispered, initiating the gentlest form of the mind magic. Harry watched in fascination as her expression became intensely focused, a slight frown forming between her brows.
After a moment, she withdrew from Baddock's mind. "I've temporarily stabilized the reaction," she explained to Harry, though her attention remained on her patient. "Mr. Baddock, what you're experiencing is a programmed response. The binding is designed to prevent you from discussing certain topics."
"I know," Baddock whispered, his voice hoarse. "Happens every time I try to remember. Worse when I try to speak about it."
"The people who did this to you," Harry said quietly, crouching beside Daphne. "They're being targeted. Marcus Belby, Ellis Travers, Morgan Pierce—they've all been murdered in the past two weeks."
Baddock's eyes widened. "Dead? All of them?" For a moment, Harry thought he detected a flicker of satisfaction in the man's expression.
"Yes," Harry confirmed. "And there could be more targets. We need to understand what happened at Halcyon House."
"Can't tell you," Baddock muttered, shaking his head. "Physically can't. They made sure of that."
"You don't need to tell us everything," Daphne said gently. "Just confirm what we already know. The Quintessence Bind was used on children in the program, wasn't it?"
Baddock hesitated, but then gave a short nod. The silvery glow beneath his skin pulsed again, but less intensely this time.
"And the children were classified based on their perceived 'risk level'?" Harry asked.
Another nod, accompanied by a bitter smile. "Risk of darkness. That's what they called it. Risk of becoming the next generation of Death Eaters." He spat the words out, each one clearly causing him discomfort. "HC-5s got the worst of it. The full binding."
"Who ran the program?" Harry pressed, careful to keep his voice calm despite the growing anger he felt. "Who authorized the use of the Quintessence Bind?"
This time Baddock winced visibly, his hands beginning to tremble again. "Can't—can't say his name. The binding won't let me."
"It's all right," Daphne soothed, sending Harry a concerned glance. "Don't push against the binding. Are there others like you? Others who were subjected to the binding who might be in danger now?"
"Six of us left," Baddock confirmed, his voice steadying slightly. "At least in Britain. Don't know about the others. We don't... we don't talk about it. Can't talk about it. But we know. We can sense each other."
"Sense each other?" Harry repeated, intrigued.
"The binding," Baddock explained haltingly. "Creates a kind of... awareness. Not mind reading. Just... I know when another bound person is nearby. Can feel their presence. Like an echo."
"What about the Shadow Boy?" Harry asked, remembering the figure mentioned in the memory fragments.
Baddock's reaction was explosive. He jerked backward, nearly falling off the bench, his eyes wild with terror. "Don't say that name! Don't ever say that name!" The silvery glow erupted across his skin, more intense than before, and blood began to flow freely from his nose.
Daphne moved quickly, placing her hands on either side of Baddock's head. "Focus on me, Mr. Baddock. Not the memory. Look at me." She whispered something too soft for Harry to hear, and gradually, the silver glow subsided.
"I'm sorry," Harry said once Baddock had calmed somewhat. "I didn't realize that would trigger such a reaction."
"No one says that name," Baddock whispered, his face ashen. "Not if they were there. Not if they know." His eyes darted nervously between Harry and Daphne. "How do you know that name?"
"We saw it in extracted memories," Daphne explained, still monitoring him carefully. "From Travers, before he died."
Baddock let out a shaky breath. "Then he's coming for us. For all of us who were there. The Healers, the Ministry officials... and us." He looked up at Harry with desperate eyes. "You can't stop him. No one can. He's not... he's not like other wizards. What they did to him... it changed him."
"Who is he, Baddock?" Harry asked, careful to keep his voice gentle despite the urgency he felt.
Baddock was already shaking his head though, backing away. "No more questions. Please. I can't... the binding will..." He swallowed hard, visibly struggling to maintain his composure. "Look for Isla. She knows more. She was his... his friend, before. Maybe she can tell you what I can't."
"Isla Carrow?" Daphne confirmed.
Baddock nodded. "But be careful. She's not... she's not well. The binding affected her differently."
"Thank you, Baddock," Harry said sincerely. "We'll be discreet about this conversation. And if you remember anything else—anything that might help us understand what's happening—"
"I won't," Baddock interrupted flatly. "And neither should you. Some things are better left buried." With that ominous statement, he straightened his robes and walked away, his posture once again hunched and defensive.
Harry and Daphne watched him go, both troubled by the encounter.
"That could have gone better," Harry muttered once Baddock was out of earshot.
"Actually, we learned quite a bit," Daphne countered, wiping a smudge of Baddock's blood from her hand with a conjured handkerchief. "The binding is still active, even after all these years. And it's specifically designed to prevent them from discussing the program or identifying those responsible."
"And this 'Shadow Boy' seems to be at the center of it," Harry added. "The way Baddock reacted..." He trailed off, and asked, "Could you tell anything else when you used Legilimency?"
Daphne nodded slowly. "His mind is... fragmented. Not like natural Occlumency barriers, but artificial structures. Walls within walls. Some memories are completely sealed off—I could sense them, but not access them." She looked troubled. "Different from Morgan Pierce though. It's sophisticated magic, Harry. Far beyond what should have been authorized for use on children."
"Do you think Isla Carrow will be able to tell us more?"
"If the binding affects her differently, as Baddock suggested, then possibly," Daphne said, though she didn't sound convinced. "But approaching her will be more complicated. Her isolation is likely both self-protection and a Ministry precaution."
"Then we'll need to be careful," Harry acknowledged. "Can you get away from St. Mungo's tomorrow? We should head to Wales as early as possible."
"I'll arrange for coverage of my rounds," Daphne agreed. "Meet at my flat at seven?"
Harry nodded, glancing around the still-empty courtyard. "We should leave separately. I'll go first, head up to the Auror Office to maintain appearances."
"I'll wait five minutes, then return to St. Mungo's," Daphne said with a businesslike nod. But then, unexpectedly, she placed a hand on Harry's arm. "Harry... what we're uncovering here... it's worse than I imagined. The Ministry using forbidden magic on children—"
"I know," Harry cut in, his voice tight with controlled anger. "It's not the first time I've discovered the Ministry has dark secrets. But it's certainly the most personal."
"Because of the children?" Daphne asked softly.
Harry nodded, surprising himself with his honesty. "Every time I think about what was done to them, I can't help but see myself at that age. Vulnerable. Used as a tool in someone else's plan." He shook his head. "No child deserves that."
Daphne's expression softened. "For what it's worth, I think that's why you're a good Auror, Harry Potter. You haven't forgotten what it's like to be the one who needs protection."
The unexpected compliment caught Harry off guard. Their working relationship had evolved rapidly over the past few days, moving from cautious cooperation to something approaching mutual respect. This moment of genuine understanding felt significant somehow.
"Tomorrow, then," he said, clearing his throat slightly. "Seven o'clock."
"Be careful, Harry," Daphne cautioned as he turned to leave. "If Baddock is right about the killer targeting everyone connected to Halcyon House, your investigation could be drawing attention."
"I'm always careful," Harry replied with a small, wry smile.
Daphne raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Hmm. Not the reputation you had at Hogwarts."
"People change, Miss Greengrass," Harry said with a mock-serious expression.
"So I'm discovering," she replied, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
-Break-
The remote Welsh countryside stretched before them in a patchwork of green hills and gray stone walls. Harry and Daphne had apparated to the nearest village, then hiked for nearly an hour to reach the secluded valley where Isla Carrow's cottage was supposedly located.
"According to the records, her cottage should be just over this ridge," Daphne said, consulting a small map she'd created based on Ministry records. "Though I'm detecting ward signatures already. Strong ones."
Harry nodded, having sensed the same magical barriers as they approached. "Protective wards. Far more sophisticated than typical home protections." His years as an Auror had taught him to recognize the subtle signatures of different magical defenses. "Some of these feel... unusual. Almost experimental."
"Given what was done to her, I'm not surprised she's cautious," Daphne replied, tucking her map away. "How do you want to approach this?"
"Directly," Harry decided after a moment's consideration. "No point trying to trick our way past the wards. If Baddock was right about the 'awareness' the binding creates, she probably already knows we're here."
They crested the ridge, and the cottage came into view—a small stone structure nestled against a hillside, smoke rising from its chimney. The garden surrounding it was wild and overgrown, with various magical plants growing in seemingly random patterns. From a distance, it looked like a typical remote wizarding home. But Harry's trained senses detected the layers of magical protections surrounding the property.
"I can feel the wards' edge about twenty meters ahead," he said quietly. "Stay close. If they're triggered, we'll need to shield quickly."
Daphne nodded, drawing her wand but keeping it lowered in a non-threatening position. They advanced cautiously, and as they reached the invisible boundary Harry had identified, he called out clearly:
"Isla Carrow? My name is Harry Potter. I'm here with Healer Daphne Greengrass. We'd like to speak with you about Halcyon House."
For a long moment, there was no response. Then, abruptly, a woman's voice rang out from the direction of the cottage.
"Come no closer!" The voice was sharp, edged with suspicion. "State your business clearly and completely!"
Harry and Daphne exchanged glances. "We're investigating recent deaths connected to the Halcyon House program," Harry replied loudly. "We believe you may be at risk and want to ensure your safety."
A harsh laugh followed his words. "My safety? After all this time, now the Ministry is concerned with my safety?"
"We're not here officially," Daphne called out. "This is an independent investigation. The Ministry has been... less than forthcoming about what happened at Halcyon House."
Another pause, longer this time. Finally, the front door of the cottage opened, and a slight figure emerged. From this distance, Harry could make out only basic details—a woman with dark hair, wearing simple robes.
"Approach the gate," the woman instructed. "Slowly. Wands visible but not raised."
They complied, moving carefully toward a small wooden gate set into a low stone wall. As they drew closer, Harry got his first clear look at Isla Carrow.
She was small and thin, with long dark hair streaked prematurely with gray despite being only in her early twenties. Her face might have been pretty once, but years of isolation and whatever trauma she had endured had left it drawn and wary. Most striking were her eyes—dark and intense, seeming to look not just at them but into them.
"The Boy Who Lived," she said flatly, her gaze fixed on Harry. "And a Greengrass." Her eyes shifted to Daphne. "You weren't involved with Halcyon House. What's your interest?"
"I'm a Healer specializing in magical trauma," Daphne explained calmly. "We've been consulting on the investigation into the deaths of Morgan Pierce, Marcus Belby and Ellis Travers."
Isla's expression remained impassive at the mention of the murdered men. "And why should I help you? Why should I care if they're dead?"
"Because whoever is killing them might come for you next," Harry said bluntly. "We believe they're targeting everyone connected to the program—not just the administrators, but possibly the children as well."
A bitter smile twisted Isla's lips. "Children. Is that what they told you we were? Troubled children who needed help?" She pushed up the sleeve of her robe, revealing her forearm.
Harry sucked in a breath at what he saw. A series of intricate runes had been physically carved into her skin, the scars silvery and slightly raised. Unlike the Dark Mark, these were not magical tattoos but actual inscriptions in her flesh, and though they were old scars, they seemed to pulse faintly with an inner light.
"This is what 'help' looked like at Halcyon House," Isla said coldly. "This is what they did to bind the 'darkness' in us. To ensure we wouldn't become the next generation of Death Eaters."
Daphne moved closer to the gate, her professional demeanor giving way to genuine concern. "May I?" she asked, gesturing to Isla's arm.
After a moment's hesitation, Isla extended her arm through the gate. Daphne examined the runes carefully, her expression growing increasingly troubled.
"These are components of the Quintessence Bind," she confirmed quietly. "But physically carving them into the skin... that's not part of any legitimate procedure I've ever studied."
"Legitimate?" Isla repeated, pulling her arm back with a scoff. "Nothing about what they did was legitimate. They called it treatment. Rehabilitation. In reality, it was experimentation. They wanted to see if they could control magical development. Turn potentially 'dark' children into obedient tools."
"Malcolm Baddock mentioned classifications," Harry said cautiously. "HC-1 through HC-5. What did those mean?"
Isla's eyes narrowed. "You've spoken to Malcolm?"
"Yesterday," Harry confirmed. "The binding prevents him from telling us much. He suggested we speak to you."
Isla seemed to consider this for a long moment, her gaze shifting between them as she made some internal calculation. Finally, she pushed the gate open a few inches. "You may enter. But only to the garden. And keep your wands where I can see them."
The garden was even more chaotic up close—a riot of magical and mundane plants growing together in what initially seemed like disorder but, on closer inspection, followed subtle patterns. Isla led them to a small stone bench beside a knotted elder tree.
"Sit," she instructed, remaining standing herself. "Ask your questions. But understand that there are things I cannot speak of. Not won't—cannot."
"We understand," Daphne assured her. "The binding restricts certain topics."
"The binding does more than restrict," Isla said, her hand unconsciously moving to her scarred forearm. "It reshapes. Rewires. Changes what you are at the most fundamental level."
"The classifications," Harry prompted gently. "What determined a child's category?"
Isla's face darkened. "Family history. Magical tendencies. Resistance to authority. The more 'dark' traits they identified, the higher your classification." She let out a hollow laugh. "My family name alone was enough to earn me HC-4. My occasional accidental magic set things on fire? That pushed me to HC-5."
"And the different categories received different treatments?" Daphne asked.
"HC-1 and HC-2 got off relatively lightly. Memory adjustments. Conditioning. HC-3 received partial bindings focused on specific 'problematic' traits. HC-4 and HC-5..." She trailed off, her expression distant. "We got the full procedure. The complete Quintessence Bind."
"Malcolm mentioned that you were friends with someone," Harry said carefully. "Someone that he couldn't name explicitly."
Isla's entire demeanor changed instantly. Her body tensed, and she took a step back, her hand moving to her pocket where Harry assumed her wand was concealed.
"You're asking about Him," she whispered, her voice suddenly trembling. "The Shadow Boy. The one they locked away."
"Yes," Harry confirmed, keeping his voice even. "We believe he might be connected to the recent deaths."
"Of course he is," Isla said, a strange mix of fear and something like pride in her voice. "He swore he would make them pay. All of them. Every last one who hurt us."
"Who is he, Isla?" Harry asked gently.
Isla's expression contorted with pain, and she pressed a hand to her temple. "I can't... the binding won't let me..." She struggled visibly, then switched tactics. "He was the first. The prototype. HC-5-Prime. The binding was designed on him, perfected on him, before they used it on the rest of us."
"And you were friends?" Daphne asked.
A sad smile crossed Isla's face. "For a time. In the beginning. Before they separated the HC-5s from each other. They discovered that when we were together, the bindings... resonated. Strengthened each other in unexpected ways." Her eyes took on a distant quality. "He was different. Stronger. The binding changed him in ways it didn't change the rest of us."
"Changed how?" Harry pressed, sensing they were approaching something crucial.
"The binding is supposed to limit, to contain," Isla explained, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. "But for him, it did the opposite. It expanded his abilities. Let him see things, do things that shouldn't be possible."
"Like what?" Daphne asked, her professional curiosity evident.
Isla shook her head. "I can't explain it properly. The binding blocks specific descriptions. But imagine if the walls of your mind became doors instead. If limitations became channels for power rather than barriers." She looked directly at Harry. "You've experienced something similar, haven't you? A connection to a mind that shouldn't have been accessible to you?"
Harry started slightly, surprised by the reference to his former connection with Voldemort. "Yes," he admitted. "Though mine wasn't created by a binding ritual."
"His was different too," Isla said, seeming to relax slightly. "The binding worked differently on him from the beginning. It was like..." She struggled for words. "Like they tried to cage a dragon with paper walls. The magic they used to restrict him became his to command instead."
"And you think he's killing the people who ran Halcyon House?" Daphne asked quietly.
Isla nodded slowly. "I've felt the echoes. We all have—those of us who were bound. Every time he kills, the binding resonates. Like a bell ringing in the distance." She rubbed her scarred forearm unconsciously. "He's hunting them systematically. Working his way through a list."
"Do you know who's next?" Harry asked urgently.
Isla's expression became guarded again. "I've said too much already. The binding is... agitated." She took another step back. "You should leave. Now. Before he realizes you've been asking questions."
"Isla," Harry said, standing slowly. "If you know who's targeting these people, you have to tell us. More lives are at stake."
"Lives?" Isla repeated with sudden vehemence. "What about our lives? What about what they stole from us? Twenty-three children, Potter. Twenty-three minds violated, twenty-three futures destroyed." Her voice rose, becoming almost feverish. "Do you know what it's like to have parts of your own mind sealed away from you? To know there are memories you can never access, thoughts you can never complete?"
"We want justice for what was done to you," Harry said firmly. "But revenge killings won't bring that justice."
Isla's bitter laugh cut through the garden. "Justice? From the Ministry that authorized the program in the first place? The same Ministry you still work for?" She shook her head. "Don't pretend you understand. You can't."
"Then help us understand," Daphne interjected, her voice gentle but firm. "We need to know what we're dealing with if we're going to stop more people from dying—including the survivors."
Isla's eyes narrowed. "What makes you think he would harm any of us? We were victims together."
"Because patterns change," Harry replied. "Revenge can become something else. Something darker." He leaned forward slightly. "And because you're afraid. I can see it. You're not just worried about Ministry officials coming for you—you're worried about him."
A flicker of something—acknowledgment, perhaps—crossed Isla's face. She turned away, walking a few paces before stopping by a patch of night-blooming flowers that were just beginning to open in the late afternoon shadows.
"We called him Corvus," she said finally, her back still to them. "Not his real name, of course. The binding prevents using real names when discussing certain subjects. But it was... fitting."
"Corvus," Harry repeated. "Like the constellation?"
Isla nodded. "The raven. Clever. Watchful. Patient." She turned back to face them, her expression haunted. "And vengeful. Even before they did what they did to him, there was something... different about him. The way he would look at the administrators. Like he was memorizing their faces for later."
"How many administrators were there?" Daphne asked.
"Seven," Isla replied. "The Sacred Seven, they called themselves. Self-important fools playing with magic they didn't fully understand." She counted off on her fingers. "Travers. Belby. Shafiq. Broadmoor. Pierce. Pucey. And..." She froze, her hand going to her temple as pain flashed across her face. "The seventh. I can't... the binding won't let me name..."
"The Director," Harry supplied, remembering Malcolm's cryptic comments.
Relief washed over Isla's features. "Yes. The Director. The architect of it all." She rubbed her scarred forearm. "He's saving that one for last, I think. Building to a climax."
Daphne exchanged a worried glance with Harry. "Isla, you mentioned Pucey. Adrian Pucey? He's one of the administrators?"
"Was," Isla corrected. "Youngest of them. Barely qualified as a Healer before joining the program. Always looked sick to his stomach during the procedures, but never stopped them." Her expression hardened. "Weak. Complicit."
"And he's on this... list?" Harry asked carefully.
"They all are," Isla confirmed. "Corvus was explicit about that, even before they separated us. 'Seven marks for seven sins,' he used to say." She shuddered. "His voice in my head sometimes, even now. Like ripples in still water."
Harry shifted uncomfortably. "This connection—through the binding—can you communicate with him?"
"No," Isla said quickly. Too quickly. "It's not like that. Just... echoes. Impressions." She hesitated. "Sometimes... dreams."
"What kind of dreams?" Daphne asked, leaning forward with clinical interest.
"Dark places. Whispers. And always, at the center, Corvus." Isla's voice had dropped to barely above a whisper. "Standing over them. The administrators. One by one as they fall."
"Isla," Harry said gently, "do you know who Corvus really is? His actual identity?"
Pain contorted Isla's features again. "I can't... the binding..." She grimaced. "The knowledge is there, but sealed away. Locked behind walls I can't breach."
Daphne stood, moving closer to Isla. "The binding ritual—you said it was physically carved into your skin. Were there potions involved too? Specific incantations?"
"Potions," Isla confirmed, seeming relieved at the change in topic. "Brewed fresh for each subject. Customized based on our... classification. The higher your number, the more complex the brew." She pulled back her sleeve again, tracing the scars. "The runes were cut and the potion poured directly into the wounds. Then sealed with a series of charms." Her voice became clinical, detached, as if reciting from memory rather than describing personal trauma. "The ritual lasted three days. By the end, your mind wasn't yours anymore."
"That's barbaric," Daphne whispered, horror evident in her voice. "Utterly unethical."
"Post-war expedience," Isla replied with a shrug that failed to mask her pain. "Better to 'treat' potentially dangerous children than risk another Dark Lord rising."
"And there were twenty-three of you?" Harry asked, trying to keep his own anger in check.
"Twenty-three survivors," Isla corrected. "There were more initially. Not everyone's mind could withstand the binding."
Daphne blanched. "Are you saying children died during this procedure?"
"Many," Isla confirmed, her voice hollow. "All HC-5s. Their minds simply... broke. That's when they adjusted the ritual. Made it 'safer.' Too late for them, of course."
Harry felt sick. He'd seen dark magic and its consequences throughout his career, but the calculated cruelty of experimenting on children—all sanctioned by the Ministry—struck him as particularly heinous.
"This has to be exposed," he said firmly. "The public needs to know what was done."
"And how do you propose to do that?" Isla challenged. "The records are sealed. The survivors are bound from speaking. And the Ministry will deny everything."
"Not if we have evidence," Harry countered. "Physical evidence, like your scars. Testimonies from as many survivors as we can find. If enough of you come forward together—"
"You don't understand," Isla cut him off. "We can't come forward. We literally cannot speak of certain aspects of the program. The binding prevents it. Try to push too hard against those barriers, and the pain becomes... unbearable." She tapped her temple. "It's not just mental blocks. It's physical consequences. Cerebral hemorrhaging. Seizures. Death, eventually, if you push hard enough."
Daphne frowned. "That level of mental constraint shouldn't be possible, even with the most advanced binding rituals. The mind naturally resists such rigid limitations."
"Unless they weren't just binding magic," Harry realized aloud. "Unless they were binding something more fundamental. Soul magic."
Isla's eyes widened slightly. "The Quintessence Bind. Binding the fifth element—the spirit, the essence." She seemed surprised. "How did you know?"
"Just a guess," Harry admitted. "But I've encountered soul magic before. It's... different. More profound in its effects."
"And far more dangerous," Daphne added. "Both to cast and to counter."
Isla's expression darkened. "That's why he's so dangerous now. The binding... changed him. Twisted something inside him." She looked directly at Harry. "You need to understand—Corvus isn't just seeking revenge. He's seeking completion. Each death strengthens him. Breaks another link in his own binding."
"How?" Harry asked urgently. "How does killing them affect the binding?"
"The binding was cast by seven," Isla explained. "It requires seven to maintain. As each one falls, the structure weakens. When the last one dies..." She trailed off.
"The binding breaks completely," Daphne finished for her. "For all of you?"
"For him," Isla corrected. "Our bindings are... derivatives of his. Simpler. More stable. His was the prototype—more complex, more experimental." She shivered. "And more dangerous if broken incorrectly."
"What happens if his binding breaks incorrectly?" Harry asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.
"Magical backlash on a scale you can't imagine," Isla whispered. "Not just for him. For all of us connected to him. Twenty-three minds, twenty-three magical cores, all linked through similar bindings..." She let the implication hang in the air.
"A chain reaction," Daphne said quietly. "Magical feedback cycling through each connected mind until they all collapse."
Isla nodded. "Now you see why I've been hiding out here. Why I've strengthened my wards. I can feel the binding weakening with each death. Feel his presence growing stronger."
"We need to find him," Harry said decisively. "Before he kills again."
"You won't," Isla replied with certainty. "Not until he wants to be found. The binding gave him... abilities. Ways of concealing himself that shouldn't be possible."
"But you can sense him," Harry pressed. "Through your connection. Can you tell us where he is now?"
Isla hesitated, conflict visible on her face. "I shouldn't. He'll know I've helped you."
"He's going to kill again, Isla," Harry said solemnly. "And eventually, he might come for the other survivors too. Help us stop this before more people die."
For a long moment, Isla said nothing, her eyes closed as if listening to something only she could hear. When she opened them again, there was a new resolve in her gaze.
"Edinburgh," she said quietly. "He's in Edinburgh now. I can feel him... hunting."
"Who's in Edinburgh?" Daphne asked urgently.
"Pucey," Isla replied. "Adrian Pucey. He's been hiding there since the program ended, working as a private Healer." Her eyes widened suddenly. "You need to go. Now. It's... it's already starting."
Harry didn't waste time asking questions. "We'll send protection for you. Stay inside your wards."
"It won't matter," Isla called after them as they hurried toward the gate. "When the Director falls, none of us will be safe!"
Harry and Daphne cleared the ward line and immediately Disapparated, appearing moments later in a narrow alley in Edinburgh's wizarding quarter.
"Pucey lives in Warlock's Crescent," Harry said, already moving at a quick pace. "I remember his address from Ministry files."
Daphne matched his stride. "If he's already there—this Corvus—we could be walking into danger."
"I know," Harry acknowledged grimly. "But we can't just let him kill again."
They turned a corner and immediately came to a halt. The street ahead was blocked by three Aurors in official robes, and beyond them, Harry could see the distinctive shimmer of a crime scene containment spell surrounding one of the townhouses.
"We're too late," Daphne whispered.
Harry approached the cordon, pulling out his Auror credentials. "Potter, DMLE. What's happened here?"
The young Auror at the boundary looked startled to see him. "Sir! I, uh... you should speak with Senior Auror Proudfoot. He's inside."
"I'll do that," Harry said, moving to step past the barrier.
The Auror shifted uncomfortably, blocking his path. "Actually, sir, I have specific orders regarding your access to this scene."
Harry stared at him. "Excuse me?"
"Orders from above, sir," the Auror said apologetically. "No one is to grant you access to a crime scene. Particularly... not with unauthorized personnel." His eyes flickered to Daphne.
Harry felt a chill that had nothing to do with the evening air. "On whose authority?"
"Head Auror Robards, sir. Direct order."
Harry's eyes narrowed. "I'm the lead investigator on the Travers and Belby cases," Harry pointed out. "This is clearly related."
"Head Auror Robards already removed you from those investigations, sir," the Auror reminded him, looking increasingly uncomfortable. "After your... disagreement in the hospital last week."
Harry's jaw tightened at the memory of the heated exchange. He had refused to back down, and the confrontation had ended with him being removed from both cases.
Before he could argue further, the door to Pucey's home opened, and two figures emerged. Harry recognized neither of them, though they wore the distinctive robes of the Department of Mysteries. Following behind them was a floating stretcher covered with a sheet—clearly concealing a body.
"Who authorized Unspeakable involvement?" Harry demanded.
The Auror looked away. "I'm not at liberty to discuss the details, sir."
Daphne tugged gently at Harry's sleeve. "Harry," she murmured. "We should go. Making a scene won't help."
Harry wanted to argue, but the tension in Daphne's voice made him glance at her. She gave a subtle nod toward a figure standing in the shadows across the street—another Auror, one Harry didn't recognize, watching them intently.
"Fine," Harry muttered. He turned away, guiding Daphne back the way they had come.
As they walked briskly away from the scene, Harry felt a familiar warmth against his leg. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the enchanted galleon he still carried from his Dumbledore's Army days—a communication method that had proven useful more than once in his career.
The message from Ron was brief but clear: They're connecting you to the killings. Be careful. They're watching Greengrass too.
Harry showed the coin to Daphne, whose lips pursed.
"I don't like this one bit," Harry said grimly, pocketing the coin. "Someone doesn't want us investigating these deaths." He glanced back toward Pucey's home, now lost to view behind the buildings. "Or maybe they don't want us finding out who's behind them."
"Isla said there were seven administrators," Daphne recalled. "Travers, Belby, and now Pucey are dead. That leaves four more."
"Including this Director she mentioned," Harry added. "The one Corvus is saving for last."
"What do we do now?" Daphne asked, her voice steady despite the obvious tension.
Harry considered their options. "We need to find Malcolm Baddock again. Get more information about the remaining administrators. Surnames won't give us much. We need to know who exactly was involved." He paused. "And we need to contact the other survivors. Warn them what's happening."
Daphne nodded. "I can start searching medical records. If they were all bound using the same ritual, they might share certain magical signatures."
"Be careful," Harry warned. "Someone at the Ministry is involved in covering this up. They might be monitoring those records."
"I'm always careful," Daphne replied with a hint of confidence. "But Harry... if Aurors are watching us both, we'll need to be strategic about meeting."
Harry nodded grimly. "I know somewhere we can talk safely. The old DA used to use it. Room of Requirement techniques, but in London."
As they reached the main thoroughfare, Harry glanced back one last time toward the crime scene, a sense of foreboding settling in his stomach. Three dead. Four to go. And somewhere out there, a wizard bound by powerful magic was systematically hunting down those who had tortured him—and potentially putting twenty-three other victims at risk in the process.
"Tomorrow," he said quietly to Daphne. "Nine o'clock. The entrance to the abandoned apothecary on Diagon. Tap the third brick from the left, fourth row up."
Daphne nodded almost imperceptibly. "I'll be there."
As they parted ways, each heading in different directions to avoid being followed together, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that they were being watched—not just by Ministry officials, but by someone else. Someone with eyes everywhere, patiently observing from the shadows.
Seven marks for seven sins, Isla had quoted. Three down. Four to go.
And Harry was starting to suspect that the seventh sin—and the seventh mark—might be the deadliest of all.
TBC.
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