Mrs. Hudson clapped her hands suddenly, the sharp sound cutting through the rising tension in the room like a conductor calling an orchestra to attention. "Now! Before you all spiral into testosterone contests—and yes, Harry, that includes you despite your age—there's something actually important that needs discussing."
Harry paused mid-bite of his sandwich, a piece of cucumber dangling precariously from his mouth. "Testos—what now?"
"Never mind that, dear." Mrs. Hudson waved dismissively. "Professor McGonagall stopped by earlier."
The effect was immediate. Harry sat up so straight he nearly launched himself from the armchair, sandwich forgotten and tumbling toward his lap. Only John's quick reflexes saved it from disaster. "McGonagall? Here? At Baker Street? But how did she even—"
"Get the time?" Sherlock interrupted, finally halting his relentless pacing to fix Harry with an incredulous stare. "Harry, the woman is a witch. A literal witch. Who can transform into a cat. I suspect time management is well within her repertoire."
"Right, yes, obviously." Harry flushed slightly. "It's just... it's weird that McGonagall and Mrs. Hudson are friends. It feels like two different lives colliding."
"Like matter and antimatter," John observed thoughtfully, settling back into his chair. "Potentially explosive."
"More like oil and water," Mrs. Hudson corrected, bustling toward the kitchen. "They don't mix naturally, but with the right emulsifier..." She trailed off meaningfully as she retrieved the teapot.
Sherlock's eyes lit up with the dangerous gleam that usually preceded either brilliant deductions or spectacular disasters. "Fascinating. You're suggesting that you serve as the stabilizing agent between Harry's two worlds. A social catalyst, if you will."
"I'm suggesting," Mrs. Hudson said firmly, returning with fresh tea, "that you stop analyzing my metaphors and listen to what Professor McGonagall actually wanted."
Harry leaned forward eagerly. "What did she say?"
Mrs. Hudson poured herself tea with practiced ease, as though visits from magical professors were perfectly routine occurrences that happened every Tuesday. "Left a message about meetings for new Hogwarts students. Social gatherings, she said. Families meeting each other, all very sensible and civilized. Build support networks before term starts, she called it."
"Support networks," John repeated, seizing on the phrase like a drowning man grabbing a life preserver. "Yes! Exactly what we were discussing earlier. This is perfect—Hermione could meet Harry before school starts, in a controlled environment."
"Define 'controlled,'" Sherlock said suspiciously, resuming his pacing with renewed vigor. "Because my definition and the Ministry's definition may differ significantly."
"Controlled as in 'not involving any explosions, mysterious deaths, or international incidents,'" John clarified dryly. "You know, normal social interaction."
"How disappointingly mundane."
Harry snorted. "Sorry to bore you with the prospect of ordinary childhood experiences, Sherlock."
"Controlled introductions," Sherlock mused, apparently warming to the concept despite his complaints. "Minimizes uncertainty, provides opportunity to assess potential threats and allies, allows me to observe patterns of interaction in magical children without being accused of loitering suspiciously at playgrounds or Diagon Alley. Yes, this could prove very useful indeed."
Harry raised an eyebrow, looking remarkably like his guardian when he did so. "Sherlock, you make a simple playdate sound like planning a counter-espionage operation."
"Is there a difference?" Sherlock asked, turning to face him with genuine curiosity written across his sharp features.
"Yes," Harry said firmly, with the patient tone of someone who had clearly had this type of conversation before. "One involves juice boxes and biscuits instead of surveillance equipment and coded messages."
"Both involve intelligence gathering," Sherlock pointed out reasonably.
"Both involve the potential for tears and tantrums," John added under his breath.
"I heard that, John."
"You were meant to."
Mrs. Hudson chuckled, a warm sound that filled the flat like sunlight. "I'll tell Professor McGonagall you're all interested then, shall I? Though I do expect you'll frighten the poor families half to death if you start turning these innocent social gatherings into military exercises." She fixed Sherlock with a pointed look that could have cut glass. "And you, young man, will sit down this instant and eat something substantial. Or I swear I'll put food in all your coat pockets and let it rot until the smell forces you to actually pay attention to basic human needs."
John perked up at that suggestion, his face brightening considerably. "You know, Mrs. Hudson, that's actually not a bad idea. A bit of strategic decomposition might finally cure him of swanning about the flat like he's the lead in some sort of pretentious cologne advertisement."
Sherlock froze mid-pace, turned with deadly precision, and fixed John with a glare of such theatrical hauteur that it belonged on a West End stage. "I," he said with icy dignity, "do not swan."
The silence that followed was pregnant with barely contained mirth.
Harry grinned wickedly, clearly unable to resist the opening. "Oh, you swan. You've elevated swanning to an art form. You've made swanning into an Olympic sport. If peacocks had a monarchy, you would undoubtedly be their sovereign ruler."
"I have observed professional dancers with less natural grace and more self-awareness," John added helpfully.
"You literally swoosh your coat when you turn corners," Harry continued, warming to his theme. "And don't even get me started on the dramatic pauses and the way you gesture with your entire body when you're making a point."
"These are merely efficient methods of—"
"Yesterday you spun around three times before sitting down," John interrupted. "Three times, Sherlock. You pirouetted into a chair."
"I was thinking!"
"You were performing Swan Lake!"
Mrs. Hudson, with the impeccable timing of someone who had spent years managing the chaos of 221B Baker Street, chose that exact moment to slide a plate of custard creams directly under Sherlock's nose. "Here, darling," she said sweetly. "Swan with a biscuit in your mouth. Let's see how graceful you are then."
The room dissolved into laughter—genuine, warm laughter that echoed off the walls and seemed to chase away the earlier shadows of worry and tension. Everyone laughed except Sherlock, who lowered himself into his chair with the stiff dignity of a man deeply misunderstood by lesser mortals who simply couldn't appreciate true artistic expression when they saw it.
"You're all philistines," he muttered, though he did take a biscuit.
"We're all right," Harry corrected cheerfully. He leaned back in his armchair, hands clasped behind his head in a gesture of perfect contentment, and declared with the kind of cheerful finality that suggested the matter was completely settled, "Well, that's sorted then, isn't it? Moriarty can plot and scheme all he wants. We've got allies, sandwiches, Mrs. Hudson's unparalleled domestic terrorism threats, and apparently a social calendar. Frankly, the poor man doesn't stand a chance."
John raised his teacup in a mock toast, grinning broadly. "Hear, hear. To the power of proper meal planning and strategic biscuit deployment."
Mrs. Hudson preened visibly, clearly pleased with the recognition. "Flattery will get you extra biscuits, Dr. Watson. And possibly some of those little cakes you like."
"The ones with the cream?"
"The very ones."
Harry looked between them all—John with his tea raised high, Mrs. Hudson beaming with pride, Sherlock grudgingly munching a custard cream while pretending to sulk—and felt something warm and solid settle in his chest. This strange, wonderful, chaotic family he'd somehow acquired.
Sherlock's smile, when it finally surfaced, was sharp and shark-like, full of anticipation and barely contained energy. "Let him come, then. Let Moriarty try whatever elaborate scheme he's concocting. The game is most decidedly on."
Harry, without missing a beat, added with the kind of mock seriousness that only an eleven-year-old could muster, "And the sandwiches are strictly off-limits. I don't care how dramatic the confrontation gets—nobody touches the food."
"Priorities," John nodded approvingly.
"Exactly," Harry agreed. "Save the world, protect the snacks. In that order."
Mrs. Hudson clapped her hands together, delighted. "There's my boy. Always thinking practically."
Sherlock looked around at them all—his chosen family, strange and wonderful and completely mad—and found himself smiling despite everything. Yes, let the games begin indeed.
—
# 12 Grimmauld Place – Drawing Room – 8:30 AM
The Floo flames in Grimmauld Place's ornate fireplace flickered from their usual orange to a brilliant emerald green, casting dancing shadows across the drawing room's restored elegance. Andromeda Tonks knelt gracefully before the hearth, her Healer's robes arranged with practiced precision as she waited for the connection to establish. The early morning light streaming through the tall windows caught the silver threads in her dark hair, a reminder that even Black family genetics couldn't entirely halt the passage of time.
"Dr. Andromeda Tonks calling for Dr. Khalil Rahman," she said clearly into the flames, her voice carrying the particular authority that came from years of navigating complex magical communications across international boundaries. "Urgent consultation required regarding curse damage and soul magic applications."
The flames swirled, twisted, and suddenly resolved into the weathered features of a man whose face carried the deep lines that came from decades of exposure to desert sun and magical energies that most practitioners wouldn't dare approach without extensive protective measures. Dr. Khalil Rahman's dark eyes were sharp with intelligence despite the early hour—though given the time difference, Andromeda realized it was likely afternoon in Cairo.
"Andromeda," he said with obvious pleasure, his accent carrying the cultured tones of someone who'd been educated at the finest magical institutions across three continents. "How delightful to hear from you. Though if you're calling about soul magic at dawn London time, I suspect this isn't merely a social consultation."
"I'm afraid not," Andromeda confirmed, settling more comfortably before the fire. "Khalil, I need your expertise on something that falls well outside conventional Healing protocols. A case involving accidental Horcrux creation and long-term integration with a child's magical development."
The change in Rahman's expression was immediate and dramatic. His weathered features grew sharp with professional concern, and when he leaned forward, the motion carried the sort of focused intensity that had made him legendary among those few magical practitioners who specialized in the darkest applications of soul magic.
"Accidental Horcrux," he repeated slowly, each word weighted with implications. "Andromeda, in forty years of studying soul magic, I've encountered perhaps three cases that could legitimately be classified as accidental. Two of those subjects died within months of the initial trauma, and the third..." He paused, clearly weighing how much information to share. "The third required procedures that pushed the boundaries of what most ethical review boards would consider acceptable."
"This case is different," Andromeda said with quiet conviction. "The subject is a ten-year-old boy who's been carrying the soul fragment for nearly his entire life. Not only has he survived, he's thrived. No signs of moral corruption, personality fragmentation, or loss of individual identity. The fragment appears to be... contained, somehow. Isolated from his core personality while still affecting certain magical abilities."
Rahman's eyebrows rose sharply, disappearing beneath the white hair that had once been as dark as desert midnight. "Ten years without degradation? That's... extraordinary. Unprecedented, really. Most parasitic soul attachments begin manifesting psychological effects within months of initial integration. The fact that this child has maintained personality cohesion for a decade suggests either remarkable natural resistance or some form of protective mechanism that I've never encountered in the literature."
"Could you explain the theoretical framework?" Andromeda asked, pulling out a notebook to record his responses. "For the benefit of someone who hasn't spent decades studying the darker applications of soul magic, what should we expect from a Horcrux that's been embedded in a living host for this duration?"
Rahman leaned back slightly, his expression growing thoughtful as he considered how to translate highly specialized knowledge into terms that wouldn't require a doctorate in Applied Dark Arts to comprehend.
"Think of the human soul as... a fortress, if you will. Ancient, strong, with walls built over centuries of moral development and personal experience. A Horcrux fragment is like an invading army that's somehow gotten inside the walls—foreign, hostile, carrying the corrupted essence of whoever created it."
He gestured with his hands as he spoke, creating shapes in the air that somehow made the abstract concepts more concrete.
"In most cases, the fragment begins immediately attempting to assert dominance over the host soul. It whispers, influences, gradually eroding the host's natural moral boundaries until the original personality is either subsumed or destroyed entirely. The process typically manifests as increasing aggression, loss of empathy, fascination with violence or power, and eventually complete personality replacement."
"But that hasn't happened here," Andromeda said with growing understanding. "Harry shows no signs of moral degradation. If anything, he seems to possess unusually strong ethical foundations for someone his age."
"Which suggests that his soul has somehow managed to contain the fragment rather than being corrupted by it," Rahman confirmed with obvious fascination. "Possibly through some form of natural immunity, or perhaps the circumstances of the initial attachment created barriers that prevent direct influence."
He paused, studying Andromeda's face through the flickering flames with the intensity of someone trying to read meaning in ancient hieroglyphs.
"Tell me about the circumstances of creation," he said with clinical directness. "How exactly did this accidental Horcrux come to be embedded in a child?"
Andromeda took a careful breath, weighing how much detail to provide about events that were still classified at the highest levels of magical government. "The child survived a Killing Curse that rebounded on its caster. The curse destroyed the attacker's physical form, but the magical backlash was sufficient to fracture his already unstable soul. A fragment appears to have lodged in the only other magical signature present at the time."
Rahman whistled softly, a sound that carried undertones of professional appreciation mixed with horror. "A rebounded Killing Curse. Dear gods, Andromeda, the magical forces involved would have been... catastrophic. The kind of raw energy release that could level buildings, shatter protective wards, or..." His voice trailed off as he processed the implications. "The child was fifteen months old, you said?"
"Yes. The fragment has been integrated with his magical core ever since. It's manifested primarily as enhanced abilities—Parseltongue, unusual magical resistance, accelerated development in certain areas. But no corruption, no personality changes, no loss of moral judgment."
"Fifteen months," Rahman repeated with something approaching awe. "At that age, the child's soul would have been remarkably flexible, still developing its fundamental structures. It's possible—barely possible—that instead of being invaded, his soul somehow... adapted. Grew around the fragment. Incorporated it as just another aspect of his magical signature rather than treating it as a foreign presence."
Andromeda leaned forward with growing interest. "Like scar tissue forming around a foreign object?"
"More like a pearl," Rahman corrected with obvious excitement. "When an irritant gets inside an oyster shell, the oyster doesn't fight it directly. Instead, it secretes layers of nacre around the irritant until it becomes something beautiful, valuable, completely integrated with the host organism. The irritant is still there, but it's been transformed into something that enhances rather than threatens the host."
The implications of this metaphor sent a chill down Andromeda's spine. "So the soul fragment isn't parasitic—it's been incorporated into Harry's natural magical development?"
"Potentially, yes. Though this is purely theoretical, you understand. I've never encountered a case with these specific parameters." Rahman's expression grew more serious, the lines around his eyes deepening with concern. "However, integration doesn't necessarily mean safety. The fragment is still there, still carrying whatever corrupted essence was present when it was created. If something were to trigger its activation—extreme stress, exposure to dark magic, deliberate attempts at possession—the results could be catastrophic."
"Activation?" Andromeda's voice sharpened with medical concern. "What sort of activation?"
Rahman was quiet for a long moment, clearly weighing the implications of what he was about to reveal. When he spoke, his voice carried the sort of careful precision that suggested he was discussing information that could be genuinely dangerous in the wrong hands.
"Horcruxes are designed as anchors, Andromeda. They exist to prevent the creator's soul from passing on after death, to provide a pathway for return to corporeal existence. If the original creator were to attempt resurrection, or if the fragment were deliberately awakened through dark magic, it could theoretically override the host's personality entirely."
The silence that followed was heavy with terrible possibilities.
"You're saying that if the creator of this Horcrux is still alive somewhere, in some form, he could potentially..." Andromeda couldn't finish the sentence. The implications were too horrific to voice.
"Possess the child, yes. Use the embedded fragment as a doorway into his consciousness, potentially displacing the original personality entirely." Rahman's expression was grave. "Though again, this is theoretical. The integration you've described might provide natural protection against such attempts. The child's soul has had ten years to grow stronger, to develop defenses, to claim ownership of all aspects of his magical signature."
"But we can't be certain."
"No. We cannot be certain."
Andromeda made rapid notes, her hand moving across parchment with practiced efficiency while her mind raced through the medical and strategic implications of Rahman's analysis.
"What about removal?" she asked without looking up from her writing. "Is it possible to extract a Horcrux fragment that's been integrated for this duration without causing irreparable damage to the host?"
Rahman sighed deeply, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of decades spent dealing with the darkest aspects of magical medicine. "In theory, yes. Soul magic is remarkably sophisticated when properly applied. There are procedures, rituals, carefully controlled applications of restorative magic that can separate foreign soul fragments from host souls."
"But?" Andromeda prompted, hearing the inevitable qualification in his tone.
"But the risks are extraordinary. Soul separation procedures require absolute precision—one mistake and you could fragment the host's soul instead of extracting the parasite. The patient could lose essential aspects of their personality, their memories, their magical abilities. In extreme cases, the trauma could be fatal."
He leaned forward again, his dark eyes intense with the sort of focused concern that characterized medical professionals discussing life-and-death procedures.
"Moreover, if this fragment has truly been integrated for ten years, attempting to remove it might eliminate abilities that have become fundamental to the child's magical signature. The Parseltongue talent, the enhanced resistance, possibly other capabilities he's developed—all of that could be lost permanently."
"So our options are to leave the fragment in place and hope it never causes problems, or attempt removal with the risk of destroying everything that makes Harry unique," Andromeda summarized grimly.
"That's... a rather stark way to phrase it, but yes, essentially correct." Rahman paused, studying her face with obvious sympathy. "Though there may be a third option. Something experimental, untested, but potentially safer than outright removal."
Andromeda looked up from her notes with sharp attention. "What kind of third option?"
"Containment enhancement. Instead of removing the fragment, we could theoretically strengthen the barriers that are already keeping it isolated from the host personality. Think of it as... magical insurance. Reinforcing the natural defenses that have protected the child for ten years, making them permanent and unbreachable."
"How would that work practically?"
Rahman gestured again, his hands creating complex patterns in the air as he explained concepts that existed at the bleeding edge of magical theory. "Ritual magic, primarily. Carefully constructed ward sequences that would anchor the existing psychological barriers, preventing any external influence from activating the fragment. Combined with monitoring spells that would alert us immediately to any changes in the fragment's activity level."
"Risks?"
"Considerably lower than extraction, though not negligible. The primary danger would be accidentally strengthening the fragment instead of containing it. But with proper preparation, appropriate safeguards, and a team of specialists..." He shrugged eloquently. "The success probability would be quite high."
Andromeda finished her notes and looked up at Rahman with the sort of focused determination that had made her legendary among St. Mungo's most difficult cases. "Khalil, would you be willing to consult on this case directly? Travel to London, examine the patient, develop a comprehensive treatment plan?"
Rahman's weathered features broke into the first genuine smile she'd seen during their conversation. "Andromeda, this is potentially the most fascinating case I've encountered in four decades of practice. A successfully integrated accidental Horcrux, a child who's somehow managed to pearl a soul fragment instead of being corrupted by it—of course I'll consult. When do you need me?"
"As soon as possible. The child starts magical education in September, and we'd prefer to have his condition stabilized before he's exposed to the additional stresses of institutional magic, adolescent development, and whatever social complications arise from his... unique circumstances."
"Unique circumstances beyond carrying a soul fragment?"
Andromeda's smile held layers of meaning that would have intrigued professional diplomats and terrified amateur psychologists. "Harry Potter isn't just any child with an unusual medical condition, Khalil. He's the Boy Who Lived. The child who survived the killing curse, defeated the most dangerous dark wizard in recent history, and is generally regarded as either a savior or a target depending on one's political affiliations."
Rahman whistled again, this time with the sort of appreciation usually reserved for particularly complex mathematical proofs or perfectly aged wine. "Of course he is. Because a simple medical case would be far too straightforward for someone of your reputation."
"Simple cases don't require international consultations with the world's foremost expert on soul magic."
"True enough. Very well, then—I'll make arrangements to travel to London within the week. In the meantime, monitor the boy carefully for any changes in behavior, magical activity, or psychological state. Particularly watch for signs of external magical influence or attempts at mental intrusion."
"External influence?" Andromeda's voice sharpened with renewed concern.
"If the original creator is indeed still alive in some form, he may attempt to establish contact with the fragment. Test its responsiveness, gauge its potential usefulness for future plans. Such attempts would manifest as nightmares, periods of disorientation, possibly temporary personality changes or unusual magical manifestations."
Rahman's expression grew even more serious as he continued his warning.
"Also, be extremely cautious about exposing the boy to dark magic or high-stress situations that might trigger the fragment's activation. Emotional trauma, magical dueling, proximity to other dark artifacts—any of these could potentially disrupt the stability that's protected him for the past decade."
"Understood. Khalil, thank you. This consultation has been invaluable."
"Think nothing of it. Cases like this are why I went into soul magic research in the first place—the opportunity to encounter something genuinely unprecedented, to push the boundaries of what we understand about consciousness and magical identity." His smile was sharp with intellectual anticipation. "I'll bring my complete library of soul magic texts, plus some experimental equipment that might prove useful for detailed analysis. This is going to be fascinating."
The Floo flames began to flicker, indicating that their communication window was approaching its natural conclusion.
"One final question," Andromeda said quickly. "In your professional opinion, what's the long-term prognosis for a case like this? Assuming we can implement proper containment measures and monitoring protocols?"
Rahman considered the question with the sort of careful deliberation that suggested he was weighing variables most people couldn't even identify, much less quantify.
"Cautiously optimistic," he said finally. "If the child has successfully integrated the fragment for ten years without corruption, if he's developed natural defenses against its influence, and if we can enhance those defenses through proper medical intervention... there's no reason he couldn't live a completely normal life. The fragment would remain as a sort of... dormant appendix. Present, potentially useful in specific circumstances, but not actively threatening his health or personality."
"And if something goes wrong?"
Rahman's expression grew grave again. "Then we'll deal with that situation when it arises, using every resource at our disposal and every technique that forty years of studying soul magic has taught me. But Andromeda—" his voice carried absolute conviction, "—I don't think anything will go wrong. This boy has already survived the impossible. He's demonstrated resilience that borders on miraculous. Whatever combination of factors has protected him this long, I suspect it will continue protecting him for the rest of his life."
The flames flickered once more and then returned to their normal orange glow, leaving Andromeda alone with her notes and the weight of decisions that would shape a child's future in ways that most medical professionals never had to contemplate.
She remained kneeling before the fireplace for several minutes, processing the full implications of Rahman's analysis and beginning to formulate the comprehensive treatment plan that would either secure Harry's long-term safety or represent the most spectacular failure of her medical career.
Either way, it would certainly be the most interesting case she'd ever handled.
Standing with the fluid grace that years of Healer training had beaten into her muscle memory, Andromeda gathered her notes and began composing the letter that would summon Harry back to St. Mungo's for the most important medical consultation of his young life.
—
# Sherrinford Maximum Security Facility – Private Consultation Room – 2:30 PM
The violin's voice died with surgical precision, leaving behind only the sterile hum of Sherrinford's ventilation system and the particular quality of silence that suggested someone had just received news that would fundamentally alter their understanding of reality. Eurus Holmes lowered her instrument with movements that were controlled and deliberate, though something in her pale eyes had shifted from casual interest to the sort of laser-focused attention that made hardened criminals reconsider their life choices.
"A soul fragment," she repeated, her voice carrying the sort of clinical detachment usually reserved for discussing weather patterns or stock market fluctuations. "Lodged in Harry's scar since he was fifteen months old. Parasitic. Malevolent. Belonging to the creature who murdered his parents."
She set the violin aside with the careful precision of someone handling unexploded ordnance, then rose from her chair with fluid grace that somehow managed to convey both elegant composure and barely restrained homicidal intent.
"Mycroft," she continued conversationally, moving toward the reinforced glass that separated them with the measured steps of a predator approaching prey, "I want you to understand something with absolute clarity. When I escaped from this facility to hunt down Peter Pettigrew, it was because he had betrayed family members and endangered a child I consider under my protection."
Her smile was sharp enough to perform delicate surgery or negotiate hostile takeovers with equal effectiveness. "This situation represents a considerably more... personal insult to my sensibilities."
Mycroft, settled in his chair with the unflappable composure that had made him legendary among those who dealt with international crises for a living, adjusted his umbrella with deliberate precision. "Eurus, while I appreciate your protective instincts regarding Harry, I must stress that his condition has been stable for nearly eleven years. There's no immediate threat, no urgent crisis requiring—"
"No immediate threat?" Eurus's voice remained perfectly calm, perfectly controlled, though something in her posture suggested that the room's reinforced glass might not prove as secure as its designers had hoped. "Mycroft, there is a piece of Tom Marvolo Riddle festering inside our nephew's magical signature like a spiritual tumor. It has been there for a decade, potentially influencing his development, certainly contaminating his magical core with the corrupted essence of a genocidal psychopath."
She pressed one palm against the glass, her pale eyes bright with the sort of intellectual fury that had probably launched wars and toppled governments. "That constitutes an immediate threat to everything I find valuable in this world."
Mycroft's expression shifted slightly, becoming more attentive as he recognized the particular quality of focused intensity that preceded his sister's most spectacular interventions in global affairs. "The medical specialists are confident that the fragment has been contained by Harry's natural defenses. Dr. Tonks has consulted with experts in soul magic, and they believe—"
"I don't care what they believe," Eurus interrupted with silky precision. "I care what they can prove. And more importantly, I care what they can do to remove this contamination permanently and completely."
She began pacing within the confines of her cell, movements sharp and controlled as her formidable mind engaged with a problem that threatened something she had designated as worthy of protection. "Tell me about the specialists. Their qualifications, their experience with similar cases, their success rates with soul magic procedures. Everything."
Mycroft opened the leather portfolio he'd brought, withdrawing several documents with practiced efficiency. "Dr. Khalil Rahman, currently the world's foremost expert on applied soul magic. Forty years of experience, trained in Cairo, Damascus, and Prague. He's agreed to consult on Harry's case personally."
"Rahman." Eurus paused mid-stride, her expression shifting to something approaching professional respect. "I've read his work. Brilliant theoretical foundation, impeccable methodology, absolutely ruthless when it comes to protecting his patients from bureaucratic interference." Her smile turned predatory. "We might actually get along."
"He's expressed cautious optimism about containment enhancement procedures," Mycroft continued, clearly encouraged by her reaction. "Strengthening Harry's natural defenses rather than attempting direct extraction of the fragment."
"Containment enhancement." Eurus tested the phrase like she was sampling wine of questionable vintage. "Essentially building a more sophisticated prison around the parasite while leaving it in place. Practical, certainly. Safe from a medical perspective, undoubtedly. But not..." She paused, choosing her words with surgical care. "Not sufficiently permanent for my tastes."
Mycroft leaned forward slightly, his bureaucratic instincts engaging with what he recognized as a potentially dangerous shift in his sister's thinking. "Eurus, I hope you're not considering any unauthorized interventions in Harry's medical care. The specialists involved are highly qualified, and any interference from unqualified individuals could—"
"Unqualified?" Eurus's laugh could have been used to cut glass or strip paint from nearby surfaces. "Mycroft, I've spent the better part of two years studying everything this facility's library contains about consciousness, identity, and the theoretical foundations of what muggles call psychology. I've also had access to certain... specialized texts that most medical professionals never encounter during their conventional training."
She moved closer to the glass, her voice dropping to the sort of conversational tone that suggested she was sharing state secrets or possibly detailed instructions for committing perfect crimes. "I've been corresponding with Rahman for eighteen months. Professional consultation regarding theoretical applications of consciousness manipulation and identity reconstruction. He sends me his research papers, I provide analysis and suggest alternative approaches. Quite stimulating, really."
Mycroft blinked, his usually omniscient composure cracking slightly around the edges. "You've been conducting unauthorized academic collaboration with international specialists without informing the facility administrators?"
"The facility administrators lack the intellectual capacity to appreciate the significance of such collaboration," Eurus replied with casual dismissiveness. "But yes, Rahman and I have developed a rather productive working relationship. He finds my perspectives... illuminating."
She returned to her chair, settling with elegant precision while her pale eyes remained fixed on Mycroft with uncomfortable intensity. "Which brings me to my immediate requirements. I need access to Rahman's complete research library on soul magic applications. Every paper, every case study, every theoretical framework he's developed over the past four decades."
"Eurus—"
"I also need detailed medical records regarding Harry's condition. Andromeda's diagnostic findings, the results of her consultation with Rahman, any preliminary treatment recommendations they've developed." Her voice carried the sort of absolute authority that made even cabinet ministers check their schedules twice. "Everything, Mycroft. No editorial omissions, no protective censorship, no bureaucratic hedging about sensitive information."
Mycroft adjusted his tie with the precision of someone buying time to consider all possible ramifications of his sister's requests. "May I ask what you intend to do with this information?"
Eurus's smile was terrible in its satisfaction, the expression of someone who'd just been handed the keys to a particularly well-stocked armory. "What I do best, brother dear. Find solutions that other people consider impossible, develop methodologies that exist outside conventional parameters, and ensure that family members under my protection receive the most comprehensive care available regardless of what bureaucratic limitations might theoretically apply."
"That's not an answer, Eurus."
"That's the only answer you're going to receive until I've had the opportunity to conduct my own analysis of Harry's condition and the available treatment options." She leaned back in her chair, fingers steepling with the sort of calculating precision that had probably precipitated international incidents. "Though I will say this—if Rahman's containment enhancement procedures prove insufficiently permanent, if there remains any possibility that this parasite could activate or influence Harry's development, then alternative approaches will become necessary."
The silence that followed was heavy with implications that neither sibling wanted to examine too closely.
"Alternative approaches," Mycroft repeated with the sort of diplomatic precision that revealed nothing while implying everything.
"I'm not going to allow Tom Riddle's corrupted essence to contaminate Harry for one moment longer than absolutely necessary," Eurus said with quiet conviction that carried more menace than any theatrical declaration could have managed. "That creature took Harry's parents, marked him for death, and has been squatting in his magical signature like a spiritual parasite for eleven years. The debt requires settlement."
She rose again, moving toward her violin with movements that were sharp and purposeful. "Provide the research materials, Mycroft. Everything Rahman has ever written about soul magic, plus anything else you can obtain through your various channels regarding Horcrux creation, containment, and destruction."
"And if I refuse?"
Eurus's pause was barely perceptible as she positioned her violin beneath her chin, bow poised with predatory precision. "Then I'll obtain the information through alternative channels, which would be considerably less convenient for everyone involved and might attract unwanted attention from various authorities who prefer their most dangerous prisoners to remain properly contained."
The first notes that emerged from her violin were mathematically precise but emotionally devastating, carrying harmonics that seemed to resonate with frequencies beyond normal human perception. Somewhere in the facility's depths, electronic systems began operating with unusual efficiency while security protocols executed flawlessly but with subtle modifications that their programmers had never intended.
"The research materials, Mycroft," she repeated without pausing in her playing. "By tomorrow morning. Every document, every theoretical framework, every experimental procedure that might prove relevant to removing foreign soul fragments from unwilling hosts."
"And after you've reviewed everything? What then?"
Her smile was razor-sharp and absolutely merciless. "Then we ensure that Harry Potter receives the most comprehensive medical care available in either the magical or mundane worlds, regardless of what conventional limitations might theoretically apply to such procedures."
The violin's song grew more complex, weaving between beauty and underlying menace in patterns that suggested mathematical precision rather than emotional expression. "After all, family obligations transcend institutional arrangements. And I've grown quite fond of our dear Harry during his visits here."
Mycroft gathered his documents with practiced efficiency, clearly recognizing that this particular negotiation had reached its natural conclusion. "I'll have the materials delivered through appropriate channels. Though I do hope you'll exercise appropriate discretion regarding whatever conclusions you might reach."
"Discretion is highly overrated when family welfare is at stake," Eurus replied without missing a note. "Though I suppose it has its place in preventing unnecessary paperwork and bureaucratic complications."
As Mycroft prepared to leave, Eurus's playing softened to something approaching a lullaby, though the melody carried undertones that suggested lullabies sung by creatures that hunted in darkness and found comfort in other people's nightmares.
"Oh, and Mycroft?" she called softly. "Do give my love to Harry when you see him next. Tell him that Aunt Eurus is working on a special project just for him. Something that will ensure he never has to worry about unwanted houseguests again."
The consultation room door closed with whisper-soft precision, leaving Eurus alone with her violin and her plans. Outside, the facility's staff continued their routines, unaware that their most dangerous prisoner had just declared war on the remnants of the most feared dark wizard in recent history.
The game, indeed, was entering a new phase entirely.
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