The door to Daphne's flat swung shut with a click as Harry cast a series of protective spells—some standard Auror security measures, others more obscure enchantments he'd picked up during the war. The tension that had been building in his shoulders since their hasty departure from the Ministry headquarters finally began to ease as the last spell settled into place with a faint shimmer across the doorframe.
"That should hold for now," he said, pocketing his wand and turning to face Daphne.
She stood in the center of her living room, still wearing the formal robes she'd donned for their meeting with Robards—a meeting that had deteriorated rapidly once it became clear that the Head Auror had no interest in their findings, only in silencing them. Her normally composed features were tight with strain, her lips pressed into a thin line as she surveyed her flat with new eyes—no longer simply her home, but now their refuge.
"I never thought I'd be a fugitive in my own country," she said quietly, removing her outer robe and draping it carefully over the back of a nearby chair. "Especially not for doing the right thing."
Harry ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. "We're not technically fugitives. I'm on 'administrative leave pending investigation,' and you're—"
"Under professional review for 'ethical breaches and potential compromise of confidential Ministry affairs,'" Daphne finished for him, mimicking the pompous tones of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement official who had delivered the notice. Her voice was icier than he'd ever heard before. "Which amounts to the same thing. They've frozen my credentials at St. Mungo's. I can't access my office or my patient files. Do you realize what that means for the people under my care? Some of them have been making progress after years of stagnation."
The bitterness in her voice was uncharacteristic—a crack in the polished façade she typically maintained. Harry moved toward her, but then he hesitated, unsure of what comfort he could offer. Their relationship had evolved swiftly over the past weeks, from reluctant acquaintances in an investigation to something more complex, but its boundaries remained undefined, particularly in moments of vulnerability like this one.
"I'm sorry," he said finally. "I never meant to drag you into this. Your patients shouldn't suffer because you helped me."
Daphne looked up at him, a flash of irritation crossing her features. "You didn't drag me anywhere, Harry. I made my own choice when I agreed to help you." Her expression softened slightly. "Besides, I'd rather be here, understanding the truth, than safely ignorant back at St. Mungo's."
She paused, rubbing her temples briefly. "And my patients will survive. I trained my assistant healers well. Though I'd feel better if I could at least send them some notes..."
Harry nodded, accepting her rebuke with good grace. If their brief partnership had taught him anything, it was that Daphne Greengrass did not appreciate being treated as though she needed protection—not from him, not from anyone.
"We should organize what we have," he suggested, gesturing to the satchel he'd dropped by the door.
Daphne nodded, seeming relieved to have a concrete task to focus on. "Let's go then."
They made their way to the spare bedroom that held everything they'd gathered on Project Halcyon and the murders. Harry began unpacking the materials they'd gathered. Their notes from the Azkaban interview joined the copies of Nott and Zabini's research, arranged alongside photographs of the crime scenes, and most precious of all, the single folder of Project Halcyon documents they'd managed to secure before their investigation was officially terminated.
"Not much to show for nearly getting arrested," Harry muttered as he spread the materials across the table.
"More than they wanted us to have," Daphne countered, kneeling beside him to sort through the papers. Their shoulders brushed briefly, though neither didn't immediately shift away as they might have done weeks earlier. "And we have something they can't take away—what Shafiq told us."
Harry nodded grimly. "That the children's abilities weren't just suppressed—they were harvested. Used to enhance the Seven's own powers."
"And now those abilities are returning to their original owners," Daphne continued, her fingers tracing the runic symbol on one of the photographs. "As the binding weakens with each death."
She looked up, a strand of blonde hair falling across her face. "What I can't stop wondering is whether Shafiq knew all along what they were really doing to those children. Was he a willing participant or just another dupe thinking he was helping to 'stabilize' dangerous magical talents?"
Harry thought back to the man's haunted eyes, the tremor in his hands as he'd spoken of the project. "I think he knew something wasn't right, but maybe not the full extent. He seemed genuinely disturbed by what happened to Corvus—almost paternal."
"A convenient moral awakening, after the damage was done," Daphne said, her tone sharp.
Harry studied her face, noting the tension in her jaw. "This is personal for you, isn't it? Beyond the professional ethics. Or what's right and wrong."
Daphne was silent for a long moment, sorting through papers with intense focus. Just as Harry thought she wouldn't answer, she spoke, her voice quiet but steady.
"After the war, when I started training as a mind healer, I worked with children who'd been traumatized—those who'd lost parents, witnessed atrocities, or been subjected to the Carrows' idea of discipline at Hogwarts." She placed a photograph carefully on the table. "I saw firsthand what happens when someone violates a child's mind. The scars never fully heal; they just become part of who that person is. The idea that the Ministry sanctioned—engineered—a program to systematically alter children's magical development..." Her voice hardened. "It's unforgivable."
Harry's respect for her deepened at this revelation. It explained much about her fierce dedication to their investigation, despite the mounting personal cost.
"We'll expose them," he promised softly. "All of them."
Daphne met his gaze squarely, her eyes softening almost imperceptibly. "Yes. We will."
They worked in companionable silence for some time, organizing the information into logical groupings—victim profiles, Project Halcyon procedures, witness accounts, and the sparse details they had managed to gather about the mysterious "Corvus." They both couldn't help but notice the efficiency with which they moved together in the limited space, anticipating each other's needs, passing documents back and forth with minimal verbal communication. In such a small time, a level of understanding had developed between them.
"Here," Harry said, holding out a document with a complex chart of runes. "This one connects with what we saw in the case file from the third victim. There seems to be a pattern in the ritual markings."
Daphne took the parchment, her fingers brushing his. "Yes, I noticed that too. The progression suggests a specific sequence, not just identical markings repeated. Each murder advances the ritual to a new stage."
Harry knelt beside her chair to study the pattern she was indicating. "Like links in a chain being broken one by one?"
"Exactly." She leaned closer, pointing to a specific sequence. "See how this element shifts slightly each time? It's almost like a countdown. And if the sequence holds..."
"The final ritual would complete whatever Corvus is trying to achieve," Harry finished. "But what exactly is that? Revenge seems too simple."
"Power," Daphne suggested, her face close enough to his that he could detect the faint scent of her perfume—something subtle and floral. "If what Shafiq said is true, and Corvus found a way to 'absorb' the ritual rather than be constrained by it, perhaps he's not just releasing his own bound abilities, but claiming those of the Seven as well."
Harry considered this, aware of her proximity. "A transfer of power rather than just a release of the bindings."
"Precisely."
Their eyes met, and for a moment neither moved. Harry was acutely conscious of how close they were, how in another context, this proximity might suggest something entirely different than professional collaboration. Daphne seemed to realize it too, a slight flush creeping into her cheeks before she turned back to the documents.
"We should map the progression of the ritual markings," she said, her voice perfectly professional once more. "It might help us predict what the final outcome could be."
As afternoon stretched into evening, Daphne finally straightened from her position by the corkboard where she'd been pinning photographs and drawing connections with colored string.
"I need tea," she announced, rolling her shoulders to release the tension that had built there. "And actual food if we're going to continue making sense of all this."
Harry glanced up, suddenly aware of the growing discomfort in his own back and the hollow feeling in his stomach. "I could go out and get us something," he offered.
"Not a chance," Daphne replied. "The flat is under a modified Fidelius Charm—one of my father's more paranoid but useful legacies. It's not as complete as a true Fidelius, but it obscures the location enough that casual searches won't find it." She moved toward the kitchen area. "I have enough here to put something together."
Harry followed her, leaning against the doorframe as she began pulling ingredients from a small pantry. "Modified Fidelius? I didn't know that was possible."
"It shouldn't be, according to conventional magical theory," Daphne replied, her attention focused on the vegetables she was now deftly chopping with a flick of her wand. "But my father spent years developing variations on protective enchantments. After the first war with Voldemort, he became... cautious."
"Cautious enough to prepare a secret flat for his daughter?"
A small smile touched Daphne's lips. "This place actually belonged to my grandmother—my father's mother. When she died, he maintained it under various concealment charms rather than selling it. After I completed my Healer training, he offered it to me." Her knife paused momentarily. "I think he always feared there might come a time when being a Greengrass would again make us targets. He wanted to ensure I was the secret keeper. You can't do it with the usual Fidelius. Hence the modified version, and the limitations that come with it."
Harry absorbed this information thoughtfully. The Greengrass family's positioning during the war had been complex—technically pure-blood and associated with Slytherin House, but not openly aligned with Voldemort. It had left them in a precarious middle ground, distrusted by both sides.
"Your father seems like a careful man," he observed neutrally.
"Careful. Calculating. Concerned with survival above all else." Daphne's tone was matter-of-fact rather than accusatory. "There's wine in that cabinet, if you'd like to make yourself useful."
Harry smiled, accepting the change of subject. "Is that an order, Healer Greengrass?"
"Consider it a strong professional recommendation," she replied, the corner of her mouth quirking upward.
The domesticity of the moment struck Harry as surreal—preparing dinner together in this hidden flat while the Ministry potentially mobilized to locate them, discussing family histories and war strategies as casually as old friends. It was a strange intimacy born of shared danger and purpose, pulling them into a closeness that might have taken months or years to develop under normal circumstances.
As he located wine glasses in a nearby cabinet, Harry ventured a question that had been on his mind. "Did you ever consider leaving Britain? After the war, I mean. Many families did."
Daphne stirred the pasta sauce she was preparing, seeming to weigh her response. "Yes. Father wanted us to relocate to our property in Switzerland—neutral territory with excellent privacy laws and a strong magical community." She tasted the sauce with a small spoon, adding a pinch of herbs. "But I'd just started my Healer training. And I felt... responsible, I suppose."
"Responsible?" Harry prompted, pouring wine into the glasses.
"For helping repair what had been broken." She looked up at him directly. "Different approach than yours, obviously. You chose to hunt the remaining threats; I chose to heal the damage already done. But the motivation wasn't entirely different."
Harry was struck by her perception. Few people had ever framed his decision to become an Auror that way—as an extension of his desire to protect and repair, rather than just continuing to fight.
"You're very perceptive," he said, handing her a glass of wine.
"I'm trained to be." She accepted the glass, her fingers briefly touching his. "Though I'll admit, you've surprised me these past weeks. You're... not entirely what I expected."
"Not the reckless, glory-seeking Gryffindor from our school days?" he asked, attempting to keep his tone light despite genuine interest in her answer.
"Oh, there's still plenty of Gryffindor recklessness," she replied with a small, teasing smile. "But there's more patience, more strategy than I anticipated. And a willingness to question authority that I wouldn't have predicted from the Chosen One."
Harry leaned against the counter, considering her assessment. "War changes people. So does watching institutions you trusted reveal their darker sides."
"Indeed it does." Daphne raised her glass slightly. "To unexpected alliances."
"To unexpected alliances," Harry echoed, touching his glass to hers.
As they finally settled at the small dining table with plates of pasta and glasses of wine, Harry found himself studying Daphne when she wasn't looking—noting the slight furrow that appeared between her brows when she was deep in thought, the careful precision with which she ate, and the way the lamplight caught in her hair, turning it from blonde to gold.
"You're staring, Potter," she remarked without looking up from her plate.
Harry felt heat rise to his face. "Sorry. Just thinking."
"About?" She met his eyes now, her expression curious rather than confrontational.
He hesitated, then opted for honesty. "How strange it is to be here. With you. Like this."
"Because I'm a Slytherin?" she asked, a touch of mirth in her voice.
"Because six weeks ago, we barely knew each other beyond names and reputations," Harry clarified. "And now we're essentially fugitives hiding in your secret flat, unraveling a Ministry conspiracy together."
Daphne's expression softened slightly as she took a sip of her wine. "Life rarely follows expected paths. Especially around you, apparently."
"Sorry about that," Harry said, only half-joking.
"Don't be," she replied, her voice surprisingly gentle. "We're doing something important. Something necessary." Her eyes met his across the table. "And despite the circumstances, I find I don't mind your company quite as much as I might have expected."
From Daphne, this qualified as unreserved praise. Harry felt a smile tugging at his lips. "High praise, Miss Greengrass. Next thing you know, you'll be admitting I'm not completely incompetent."
"Let's not get carried away." Her tone was dry, but there was unmistakable warmth in her eyes that made something twist pleasantly in Harry's chest.
"What was your impression of me?" she asked unexpectedly. "Before all this, I mean."
Harry considered the question carefully. "Honestly? I didn't have much of one. You kept to yourself at Hogwarts, unlike Malfoy and his more vocal crowd." He traced the rim of his wineglass with one finger. "I knew you were intelligent. I remember you correcting Snape once in Potions—something almost no one dared to do—and being right."
Daphne's eyebrows rose in surprise. "You remember that?"
"It made an impression," Harry admitted. "Especially since Snape actually acknowledged you were correct instead of taking points from Slytherin."
"He deducted them later that week for an imaginary infraction," Daphne revealed with a small smile. "To 'maintain balance,' he said."
Harry chuckled. "That sounds like Snape."
"And after Hogwarts?" she pressed. "When you learned I'd become a Healer?"
"I was surprised," Harry confessed. "Not because I doubted your abilities, but because most of your Slytherin contemporaries chose Ministry positions or took over family businesses. Becoming a Healer seemed more..."
"Hufflepuff?" she suggested, a hint of amusement in her eyes.
"Altruistic," he corrected. "Though maybe I shouldn't have been surprised. You were one of the few Slytherins who stayed to fight during the Battle of Hogwarts."
Daphne went very still. This was not something she had disclosed in their previous conversations. "You noticed that?"
"I notice more than people think," Harry said quietly.
The moment was interrupted by a soft, pulsing glow emanating from Harry's pocket. He pulled out the enchanted DA galleon, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he saw who the message was from.
"Luna," he explained, reading the encoded message that appeared on the coin's surface. "She's found something about the ritual aspects."
Daphne leaned forward, instantly alert. "What does she say?"
"Not much detail—too risky. But she wants to meet tomorrow." Harry looked up from the coin. "At the Lovegood house."
"Is that safe?"
Harry considered the question. "Luna's placed it under extensive protection since taking over from her father. And she's... unconventional enough that the Ministry tends to overlook her." He pocketed the coin again. "If anyone can tell us more about the ritual being used, it's Luna."
"She believes in creatures no one else has seen, right?" Daphne asked curiously.
"Yeah. She also has one of the most comprehensive private libraries on ancient magical practices in Britain," Harry corrected. "And she traveled extensively studying obscure rituals after the war." He smiled slightly. "The belief in unseen creatures is just a bonus."
"You're very protective of your friends," she observed, a small smile on her face.
"They've earned it," Harry replied simply. "They stood by me when most wouldn't. When it was dangerous to do so."
Daphne nodded slowly. "Loyalty. The trait everyone associates with Hufflepuff, but which I've found most concentrated in Gryffindors—at least toward their own."
"And Slytherins aren't loyal?" Harry challenged mildly.
"We're selective," Daphne clarified. "Our circles are smaller, but the bonds can be just as deep."
"You've remained friends, then? With your Hogwarts circle?"
"With some," Daphne said. "Distance grew with others after certain choices were made during the war." A shadow crossed her features. "Slytherin self-preservation sometimes came at the expense of integrity."
Harry was struck by how much this clearly troubled her—that she had judged her own House's actions and found them wanting.
"Lovegood's place tomorrow, then. What about our other potential allies?"
"Neville's message came earlier—Hogwarts can be a sanctuary if we need it."
"And Granger?"
"Should be sending something tonight. She's been researching legal precedents—looking for anything we might use to officially challenge Project Halcyon's legality."
"Always the academic approach," Daphne murmured with a small smile. "What about Weasley? Will the Auror office pose a problem for him if he helps us?"
Harry's expression darkened slightly. "Ron's walking a fine line. Officially, he can't be seen helping us while I'm under investigation. Unofficially..." He shrugged. "He's keeping his ears open around the Department. If Robards makes any significant moves against us, we'll know."
"He's risking his career," Daphne observed. "For you."
"I'd do the same for him," Harry replied without hesitation. "We've been through too much together to abandon each other now."
"It must be comforting," Daphne said softly, "having friendships with such solid foundations."
Something in her tone made Harry wonder about her own friendships—whether she had anyone she could rely on so completely. Before he could ask, she continued, her tone once again practical.
"What about your other Weasley connection? The oldest brother works as a curse-breaker, doesn't he? His expertise might be valuable in understanding the ritual components."
Harry's eyebrows rose in surprise. "You know about Bill?"
"I make it a point to know about talented curse-breakers," Daphne replied. "St. Mungo's occasionally needs their expertise with patients affected by unknown curses. William Weasley's reputation is excellent, particularly with ancient ritual magic."
"I hadn't thought to bring him in," Harry admitted. "But you're right. If anyone could help us understand the technical aspects of what Corvus is doing, it would be Bill."
"And he's close to you," Daphne pointed out. "Which means he's more likely to help despite the risks."
"I'll send him a message," Harry decided. "Though we'll need to be careful how we phrase it."
They finished their meal discussing the practical aspects of their temporary living arrangement—Harry would take the guest bedroom as he'd done previously, they would alternate cooking duties, and neither would leave the flat without informing the other. It was all very logical, very straightforward, until Daphne showed Harry to the bathroom they would be sharing, and the reality of their intimate living situation became suddenly, awkwardly apparent.
"I'll, er, try not to take too long in the mornings," Harry offered as he placed his toiletry bag on the edge of the sink, acutely aware of how his personal items looked next to her neatly arranged cosmetics and potions.
"Appreciated," Daphne replied, looking equally awkward. "I've left some towels for you there." She indicated a small stack of fluffy white towels, and seemed at a loss for what else to say. "Well. Goodnight, then."
"Goodnight, Daphne," Harry said softly.
Left alone in the narrow hallway, Harry took a deep breath, trying to center himself. The day's events had left him physically exhausted but mentally wired, his thoughts jumping between the case, their precarious situation with the Ministry, and increasingly, the woman whose space he was now sharing. Deciding that sleep was unlikely to come easily, he returned to the spare room and the scattered evidence of their investigation.
He was still there a few hours later, surrounded by parchment and photographs, when a soft tapping at the window startled him from his concentration. A small brown owl perched on the ledge, a scroll tied to its leg. Harry approached cautiously, checking for any signs of tracking or monitoring spells before allowing the bird inside.
The scroll proved to be from Hermione—pages of densely written notes on memory magic and legal precedents, charmed to appear as a mundane letter about cauldron regulations to anyone other than its intended recipient. Harry smiled at his friend's thoroughness as he began to read through her findings.
"Can't sleep either?" A soft voice drifted into the room.
He looked up to find Daphne standing in the doorway, wrapped in a silk dressing gown, her hair loose around her shoulders. It was the most unguarded he had ever seen her, and the sight stirred something in him that he immediately tried to suppress.
"Hermione's research arrived," he explained, lifting the scroll. "Thought I'd start going through it."
Daphne nodded, moving to the kitchen area. "Tea?"
"Please."
She busied herself with the kettle while Harry continued reading, occasionally making notes in the margin. When she returned with two steaming mugs, she settled into the armchair opposite him rather than returning to her bedroom.
"Anything useful?" she asked, nodding toward the parchment.
"Potentially." Harry ran a hand through his hair. "There were international statutes against binding children's magic even before Project Halcyon began. The Ministry would have needed special dispensation to proceed legally."
"Which they clearly didn't have, or Shafiq wouldn't have been so paranoid about secrecy," Daphne pointed out.
"Exactly. Hermione thinks this gives us leverage—proof of illegal activity at the Ministry level."
"Leverage for what?" She asked softly. "We're not exactly in a position to threaten the Ministry with exposure." She curled her legs beneath her in the chair, cradling her mug between her hands. In this moment, she looked younger somehow, more like the girl he might have known at Hogwarts had circumstances been different.
Harry leaned forward, his expression determined. "Not yet. But if we can gather enough concrete evidence—especially about the 'harvesting' component that Shafiq mentioned—public outrage might protect us. The wizarding community would be horrified to learn children's magical abilities were stolen."
Daphne's fingers tightened around her mug. "Especially children from certain families. The selective targeting makes it even more damning."
"That's what makes this so politically explosive," Harry agreed. "It wasn't just any children—it was specifically the children of Death Eaters and Voldemort sympathizers. The Ministry could try to spin it as a 'security measure,' but tampering with children's magic..." He shook his head. "There's no justifying that."
"Not to mention the implications for pure-blood families," Daphne added. "Many would see it as an attack on magical heritage, regardless of their political alignments during the war."
"Creating quite the unlikely alliance," Harry noted with grim amusement. "Former Death Eater families and post-war progressives united against Ministry overreach."
"People on opposite sides do make strange bedfellows," Daphne murmured, then flushed slightly at her choice of words. She took a hasty sip of tea before continuing. "What else does Granger say?"
Harry shuffled through the parchment. "She's identified several members of the Wizengamot who might be sympathetic to our cause—those who've consistently opposed expanded Ministry powers, particularly in relation to magical children. And she suggests we focus on gathering testimony from the affected families, if possible."
"That won't be easy," Daphne pointed out. "Most won't want to admit their children were deemed 'dangerous' enough to require magical binding."
"True. But if we frame it as their children being victims of illegal experimentation..."
"That might work," Daphne conceded. She set her mug down, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Harry's eyes absently followed the little movement. "What I still don't understand is why now? After all these years, why is Corvus acting now?"
"Maybe he feels ready now," Harry muttered.
They fell silent for a moment, both contemplating the magnitude of what they were up against—not just a rogue killer seeking revenge, but a systemic cover-up that reached to the highest levels of magical governance.
"What do you make of Nott and Zabini's information?" Harry asked finally, changing tack. "Their theory about the Halcyon Garden facility?"
"It's consistent with what we know," Daphne replied, setting her mug down and reaching for the folder containing the former Slytherins' research. "An isolated Ministry property in the Lake District, officially decommissioned after the war but still receiving supply deliveries and maintenance visits. Unusual security for an allegedly abandoned location."
Harry nodded. "And the name—Halcyon Garden—can't be a coincidence."
"It wouldn't be the first time the Ministry hid something important in plain sight," Daphne agreed. "The question is: what's still there? Records? Evidence? Or something—someone—else?"
"Corvus, perhaps," Harry suggested quietly. "Or other children who underwent the binding."
"If any remained under observation," Daphne mused. "Shafiq said most were 'dispersed'—sent to orphanages or distant relatives. But the special cases, the ones who responded unusually to the binding..."
"Like Corvus, who 'absorbed' the ritual somehow," Harry completed her thought. "Ross took him for 'special containment,' according to Shafiq."
"Could the Halcyon Garden be that containment facility?" Daphne wondered, leaning forward to study the map Nott had provided. Her dressing gown slipped slightly at the shoulder, revealing a pale scar that disappeared beneath the silk fabric. Harry found his gaze drawn to it before quickly looking away. She continued, seemingly unaware of his momentary distraction, though a faint flush colored her cheeks. It's remote, secure, off official records..."
"And potentially where we can find even more evidence," Harry concluded grimly. "If Corvus is working through the Seven methodically, and if Ross is indeed his next target..."
"Then we need to get there soon," Daphne said decisively. "Before the next murder—and before the Ministry realizes what we're doing."
Harry nodded in agreement, though the practical challenges of reaching a secret Ministry facility while under surveillance remained daunting. They would need help, preparation, and a solid plan.
"That's assuming they don't already know," he said, more bitterness in his tone than he'd intended. "Robards was quick to pull me off the case once the connections to Project Halcyon emerged. And the efforts to secure the families I asked for were basically ignored."
"It was indeed too quick," Daphne agreed. "But why you specifically? You weren't even part of Magical Law Enforcement during the war."
Harry shook his head. "I've been asking myself the same question. There's something here they don't want me to see." He hesitated, then added, "Or something they're afraid I might remember."
Daphne's clear blue eyes narrowed slightly. "What do you mean?"
"I don't know exactly," Harry admitted, frustration evident in his voice. "But ever since we found the first ritual site, I've had these... moments. Like déjà vu, but stronger. As if I should recognize the symbols, the patterns."
"You never mentioned this before," Daphne said softly, though there was no accusation in her tone.
"I wasn't sure it was relevant," Harry replied, looking away. "Could be nothing—just my mind making connections that aren't there."
"Or it could be something," Daphne countered. She hesitated, pondering for a moment before she added, "Memory charms can leave traces, Harry. Sensations of familiarity without context, emotional responses without clear triggers."
"You think someone modified my memories?" Harry asked, the possibility both disturbing and strangely plausible.
"I think," Daphne said carefully, "that we shouldn't dismiss anything at this point."
She reached across and touched his hand lightly, her fingers cool against his skin.
"We'll figure it out," she said simply. "Between your experience evading authorities and my family's paranoid security measures, we have certain... advantages."
The touch of her fingers against his skin sent a spark through Harry that had nothing to do with magic. He was acutely conscious of how close they were sitting, of the loose strands of her hair catching the firelight, of the faint scent of lavender that surrounded her. The warmth of her hand seemed to linger even after she withdrew it.
The conversation lapsed into silence, but it was a comfortable one, tinged with mutual respect and understanding. Daphne found herself studying his profile as he gazed into the fire—the straight line of his nose, the determined set of his jaw, the features she had observed but never truly seen during their Hogwarts years.
"We should get some rest," he said finally, bringing her out of her little staring session, his voice slightly rougher than he'd intended. "Tomorrow will be busy."
Daphne withdrew her hand slowly, her eyes never leaving his face. "Yes, it will."
But neither of them moved immediately. Instead, they remained seated before the dying fire, the silence between them lingering with things unsaid. Both had the distinct impression they were balanced on a precipice, and the slightest movement might send them tumbling over the edge—whether toward disaster or something else entirely, he couldn't say.
It was Daphne who finally broke the moment, rising gracefully from her chair.
"Goodnight, Harry," she said softly, and he didn't miss the small shift in the way she had said his name.
"Goodnight, Daphne," he replied similarly, earning a small smile from her. He sat watching as she disappeared down the hallway once more before getting up with a sigh, making his way over to the guest room.
Sleep, when it finally came to Harry, was fitful and filled with fragments of dreams—Azkaban's looming walls, Shafiq's wild eyes, runic symbols that twisted and changed shape when he tried to read them, and threading through it all, a child's voice repeating words he couldn't quite understand.
One dream in particular jolted him awake in the pre-dawn hours—a memory or perhaps a fabrication of his subconscious. In it, someone sat in a sterile white room while a woman in Ministry robes drew patterns in the air with her wand, patterns that matched the ritual symbols they'd found at the murder scenes. "This won't hurt," the woman was saying, her face blurred and indistinct. "Just look at the pretty lights. That's all you need to do."
He woke early, disoriented briefly by the unfamiliar surroundings before remembering where he was. Pale morning light filtered through the curtains, and Harry reached for his glasses and sat up, mentally preparing for the day ahead—Luna first, for information on the ritual, then possibly Neville, if they needed to plan their approach to the Halcyon Garden facility.
The soft sounds of movement from the kitchen drew his attention. Daphne was already awake, fully dressed in practical dark trousers and a navy jumper, her hair neatly braided down her back. She was preparing breakfast, moving quietly as she charmed a knife to slice bread and fruit.
"Morning," Harry called softly, running a hand through his sleep-tousled hair.
Daphne glanced over her shoulder, and he was struck by how different she looked in the cool morning light—more approachable somehow, more the woman who had shared confidences with him last night.
"Good morning," she greeted, a soft smile touching her lips. "Tea's ready if you want some."
Harry made his way to the bathroom first, taking the world's quickest shower and dressing in the clean clothes he'd hastily packed during their escape from the Ministry. When he emerged, feeling slightly more human, breakfast was waiting on the small table—simple but nourishing fare that reminded him they were preparing for what might be a long day.
"You mentioned going to see Lovegood first," Daphne said as they ate. It wasn't quite a question, but he sensed she wanted more.
Harry nodded. "Luna's probably our best source on the ritual aspects. If she's right about what she's found, it could help us understand exactly what Corvus is doing with each murder—and possibly how to counter it."
They finished breakfast and began final preparations for departure. Harry sent a confirming message to Luna via the enchanted galleon, while Daphne secured the evidence they were leaving behind with additional protective spells.
"Your spellwork is impressive," he found himself commenting. "Not many can layer protection charms that seamlessly."
Daphne glanced up, momentarily surprised by the compliment. "It's a necessity," she replied after a moment. "Patient confidentiality is sacred in Mind Healing. I developed a few specialized variations."
"Still," Harry insisted, "it's excellent work."
A faint color touched her cheeks. "Thank you. Coming from you, that's... meaningful."
The simple exchange left them both slightly awkward, still adjusting to this evolving dynamic between them. Harry busied himself checking his mokeskin pouch, while Daphne completed her protective enchantments.
"Your scar," he said abruptly, surprising himself. "On your shoulder. Is that from the battle at Hogwarts?"
Daphne's hand went reflexively to her shoulder. "No," she replied after a moment's hesitation. "Earlier than that. During the Carrows' regime. I tried to intervene when they were... disciplining a second-year Hufflepuff."
Harry stared at her with newfound respect. "You stood up to the Carrows? Directly?"
"Not as boldly as your friends," she clarified, a hint of self-depreciation in her smile. "I used Slytherin methods—suggested the child had valuable information about resistance activities that might be lost if they damaged her mind too severely. Amycus didn't appreciate my interference."
"That was brave," Harry said quietly. "Even using 'Slytherin methods.'"
"Pragmatic," Daphne corrected, though the tension in her shoulders eased slightly at his validation. "I couldn't save everyone. None of us could. But occasionally..."
"You did what you could," Harry finished for her, understanding coloring his voice. "We all did."
"Some more than others," Daphne said, meeting his gaze directly. "You know, Harry, I never properly thanked you. For ending it. For making it possible for the rest of us to just... live normal lives afterward."
"I didn't do it alone," he replied, discomfort with praise still instinctive after all these years.
"No," Daphne agreed softly. "But you were willing to die for it. Not many would have made that choice."
The quiet certainty in her voice made it impossible for Harry to deflect as he usually did. Instead, he found himself asking, "How did you know about that? What happened in the forest wasn't widely known."
"You just confirmed it for me now," she said with a soft smile, earning a look of surprise from him. "We all heard his ultimatum, Harry. And then Hagrid comes with your body in his arms. It's not hard to put the pieces together."
Harry rarely spoke about those moments, even with Ron and Hermione. Yet somehow, here with Daphne, the memories felt less raw than usual.
"I was terrified," he admitted quietly. "But I also felt... clear, for the first time. Like I finally understood what I had to do."
"That's real courage," Daphne said. "Not fearlessness. Acting despite the fear."
Their eyes met again, and Harry was struck by the genuine understanding he saw in her gaze—not the awe or pity he often encountered when people learned about his sacrifices, but a recognition between equals who had both survived impossible choices.
"What happened to her?" he asked after a moment. "The Hufflepuff girl you helped?"
A shadow crossed Daphne's face. "She graduated. Became a Healer, actually. Died in the Saint Mungo's epidemic three years ago."
"I'm sorry," Harry said, genuinely regretful. The magical influenza outbreak had claimed dozens of lives, many of them Healers who had been first exposed.
"Life goes on until it doesn't," Daphne said philosophically, though sadness lingered in her eyes. "You make your choices, do what good you can. But sometimes I wonder if anything has really changed since the war. The Ministry still buries its secrets, still makes people disappear when convenient."
Harry's jaw tightened. "I know exactly what you mean. I joined the Aurors to make real change, to make sure the Ministry became transparent, accountable. Instead..." He trailed off, frustration evident in his voice.
"Instead?" Daphne prompted.
"Instead, I've watched them become as secretive and controlling as they were before Voldemort's return," Harry admitted, the words bitter on his tongue. "Different faces, same methods. Classified operations, unaccountable departments, information compartmentalized to the point where even senior Aurors don't know what other divisions are doing."
"And anyone who questions too persistently finds themselves reassigned," Daphne added knowingly.
"Or investigating pixie infestations in Cornwall," Harry said with a humorless laugh. "Robards has been trying to sideline me for years. Says I have 'authority issues.'"
"You do," Daphne said with unexpected warmth. "It's one of your better qualities."
Harry looked up, surprised by both the observation and the fond tone in which it was said. Their eyes met, and something shifted in the space between them—the professional distance that had defined their relationship from the beginning suddenly feeling paper-thin.
"Daphne," he began, unsure what he meant to say but needing to acknowledge the changing dynamics between them.
"Don't," she said softly, but made no move to increase the distance between them. If anything, she seemed to lean slightly closer, the morning light playing across her features, highlighting the curve of her lips and the intensity of her blue eyes. "We shouldn't complicate this."
"I think it's already complicated," Harry replied, his voice dropping lower. The tension between them had been building for days, but in the quiet intimacy of her safe house, with danger pressing in from all sides, it had become almost palpable.
"We're working together on this," she said, but the argument sounded hollow even to her own ears. They both knew they had moved beyond mere professional association.
"Is that all?" Harry asked quietly.
Daphne's gaze dropped briefly to his lips before meeting his eyes again. "No," she admitted, the single syllable carrying a weight of everything that existed between them now. "That's not all."
Harry found himself leaning forward, drawn to her by something that felt both inevitable and completely unexpected. The careful walls Daphne maintained—the professional distance, the practiced composure—seemed to waver as she mirrored his movement.
The moment balanced on a knife's edge—both of them aware that crossing this line would change everything, yet neither quite able to pull back from the forces at work between them.
Their hearts were thumping loudly enough to be heard over the sounds of their heavy breathing. Eyes closed, they leaned closer, Daphne's breath hitching when Harry gently cupped her cheek.
Just as the last space between them was about to close, a silvery light burst into existence in the center of the room, startling them apart. The glowing form of Ron's terrier Patronus materialized, its urgent appearance shattering the moment completely.
"Location might be compromised," Ron's voice echoed urgently from the spectral dog. "Found reference to Daphne's second residence in her office files during official search. Move quickly. Will contact when safe."
The Patronus dissolved into wisps of silver light, leaving a heavy silence in its wake. Harry turned to Daphne, who stood frozen, her face drained of color.
"That's not possible," she whispered. "This place is under modified Fidelius. It shouldn't appear in any records."
Harry reached out instinctively, taking her hands in his. "What files would they have found in your office?" He asked urgently, but keeping his voice level.
Daphne's brow furrowed in concentration. "Nothing specific. But I did have personal journals—notes on patients, but also some private reflections." Her expression shifted to one of dismay. "There might have been a passing mention of this place—not its location, but its existence. I never imagined anyone would search my personal writings."
"They're desperate," Harry said grimly, already moving to gather the most critical evidence. He shrunk several key documents and tucked them into his mokeskin pouch. "Which means we're onto something important."
"But how would they connect a vague mention to this specific location?" Daphne asked, efficiently packing a small bag with essentials.
"They wouldn't immediately," Harry replied, helping her secure the remaining evidence. "But they might start searching property records, checking for any real estate connected to the Greengrass family."
"The flat is registered under my grandmother's maiden name," Daphne said, shaking her head. "It would take time to make that connection."
"Time we still have, according to Ron's warning," Harry assured her, holding her by the arms. "But we shouldn't waste it."
Their departure preparations took on new urgency. They quickly recovered all their evidence and secured it, reverting the spare room to its usual state. Harry got rid of any evidence he'd ever been there. Daphne cast additional charms on her wardrobe and locked her bedroom with specialized wards, while Harry also reinforced the flat's existing protective enchantments—not to prevent entry indefinitely, but to alert them if anyone attempted to breach the security.
"You work well under pressure," Daphne observed as they moved around each other with surprising coordination, anticipating each other's needs without discussion.
"Lots of practice," Harry replied with a grim smile. "Though I'd hoped those days were behind me."
"Were they ever really?" Daphne asked, her insight cutting through his defenses. "You've been an Auror for years. Danger has always been part of your life."
"True," Harry acknowledged. "But this feels different. Personal."
"It is personal," Daphne agreed softly. "For both of us now."
The simple statement cemented something between them—a partnership that had evolved beyond moral and professional necessity into something neither of them had yet named. Harry met her eyes briefly, and both knew what the other was thinking.
They were nearly ready to leave when a soft tapping at the window made them both freeze. Harry moved cautiously toward the sound, his wand drawn, only to discover a small brown owl—different from Hermione's messenger—perched on the ledge, a small package tied to its leg.
"Were you expecting something?" Daphne asked tensely, her own wand at the ready.
Harry shook his head, casting detection spells on the window and the owl beyond. When nothing suspicious registered, he cautiously opened the window just enough to retrieve the package, which was addressed simply to "H. Potter" in unfamiliar, unsteady handwriting.
The owl departed immediately after delivery. He placed the small package on the coffee table and cast additional diagnostic spells, but detected no curses or harmful magic.
"It could be a tracking device," Daphne suggested, keeping her distance. "We shouldn't open it here."
"If someone can send an owl directly here, they already know where we are," Harry pointed out grimly. "And my detection spells show it's just paper inside."
With a final glance at Daphne, who nodded her reluctant agreement, Harry carefully unwrapped the package. Inside was a child's drawing—done in crayon with the uneven strokes characteristic of a young artist—depicting what appeared to be the ritual rune they had found at the murder scenes. The central whorl had been colored in a deep red that stood out starkly against the cream parchment.
But it was the message scrawled beneath the drawing, in the same unsteady hand that had addressed the package, that made Harry's blood run cold: "You remember them too, don't you?"
He looked up to find Daphne staring at the drawing, her expression a mixture of shock and dawning comprehension.
"Harry," she said slowly, moving closer until she stood beside him, close enough that they could feel each other's warmth, "this isn't from a child."
"No," he agreed, studying the deliberately childlike scrawl more carefully. "It's from someone who wants us to think they're connecting with their childhood self. Their memories."
"Corvus," Daphne breathed. "But why contact you directly? Why now?"
Harry shook his head, a strange uneasiness settling over him. "I don't know. Unless..."
"Unless what?" She prompted, her hand coming to rest lightly on his arm.
"Unless he thinks I have some connection to Project Halcyon that I don't know about," Harry said quietly, staring at the words before him. "'You remember them too, don't you?' As if he expects me to understand something specific."
Daphne moved closer, studying his face with the clinical attention she might give one of her patients. "You have had unusual magical abilities—Parseltongue, resistance to the Imperius Curse, natural Occlumency shields..."
"You're not saying what I think you're saying, right?" He asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Daphne remained silent, although her eyes were pained as she gazed up at him.
"But I wasn't ever connected to Death Eaters," Harry objected. "That was their primary target group."
"According to what we know," Daphne countered. "But Shafiq implied they were looking for specific magical aptitudes, particularly mental disciplines. And your connection to Voldemort gave you abilities that weren't naturally yours."
The implication was shocking—that Harry himself might have been subject to some form of magical binding once the War was over. It seemed far-fetched, and yet...
"My dream," Harry said suddenly. "The white room, the symbols... what if that wasn't just my mind making connections? What if it was a memory trying to surface?"
Daphne's eyes widened slightly. "It's possible. Especially if memory charms were involved. They're never perfect—fragments can break through under stress or when exposed to triggers."
Harry's mind raced with the implications. "But why would the Ministry have included me in Project Halcyon?"
Daphne remained silent, her brows furrowed as she bit her lower lip in intense thought. "Harry, what if—"
A sharp crack from the direction of the building's entrance hall interrupted her, followed by the distinctive vibration of their warning wards being triggered. Someone was attempting to breach the building's security.
Harry acted instinctively, grabbing their packed bags and the cryptic drawing. "Time's up," he said tersely. "Side-Along to Luna's?"
Daphne nodded, tightening her grip on his hand. Just before they disapparated, her eyes met his—a look of perfect understanding passing between them. Whatever this message meant, whoever Corvus was, and whatever connection Harry might unknowingly have to Project Halcyon, they would face it together.
The last thing Harry registered before the compression of apparition took hold was Daphne's finger interlacing with his and her voice, low and determined in his ear, "We'll figure it out. Together. I promise."
Then they were gone, leaving behind only the faint magical trace of their departure as heavy footsteps began ascending the stairs to the flat.
TBC.
To read in advance, head over to pat reon dot com / TheBlackEarl (remove the spaces).
Thanks for reading.