Harry Potter : Bloodraven

They say the eyes are a window to one's soul—and in the world of magic, that isn't far from the truth. Here, the eyes serve as more than just a mirror of emotion; they are a doorway, a conduit through which magic can form a connection.

If one wishes to delve into another person's mind—to truly explore their thoughts, memories, and the very essence of who they are—there must be a bridge, a threshold. And more often than not, that threshold lies behind the eyes.

Of course, skilled mages—or those born with a natural knack for mind magic—can get by without it. But even then, all they're doing is brushing the surface. Going deeper isn't about raw power or talent. In the end, everyone needs the same key to unlock the door.

Maverick took a deep breath and raised his right hand, holding it just above the woman's temples. His fingers twitched, glowing with a soft, eerie light. A moment later, her eyes creaked open—not fully, just enough to reveal the vacant stare beneath. It wasn't her doing, of course. His magic had forced them open. Literally.

Then the current began to flow. A slow pulse of magic slipped from his hands and into her, and the connection started to form. It was faint at first—thin and delicate—but just enough. Once it steadied, Maverick leaned in slightly and whispered the spell under his breath.

The magic took hold at once, and the world around him slipped away.

The room faded away. The steady beeping of monitors, the gentle rustle of clothes, even the hum of distant conversation—all slipped into silence.

He was inside Brigid Keena's mind now.

It was nothing like Bucky's, before Maverick had pulled his former self back from the edge. Bucky's mind had been a void—empty and cold—but his memories, though broken, had still clung together in a central place. Brigid's mind was worse. Much worse.

This place looked like a battlefield, torn apart by madness. Shattered fragments of memory lay scattered across the ground, like a desolate wasteland.

Maverick found himself standing in the middle of the chaos—and it truly was a mess.

The sky above was gray, as if someone had drained the color from it and left only the idea of a sky. Beneath his feet, the "ground" was dry and brittle, with veins of glowing blue cracking through it like spiderwebs of lightning.

Every few steps, the ground dipped away into jagged pits filled with glass shards that flickered with unstable light.

Maverick crouched near one of the pits, and his brow furrowed as he assessed the situation. Each pit was a shattered mess, a fragment of the woman's memories.

This wasn't going to be easy, he figured.

He moved forward, spreading his mental senses as he scanned the landscape and soon gained a solid understanding of the areas he needed to work on.

Although it was in much worse condition than the Winter Soldier's, it was still not unfixable. And while it had only taken a few hours for Bucky, this would take much, much longer.

"A week... maybe two. If I dedicate myself fully, I should be able to bring her back enough to communicate, at least... to remember somethings."

But thinking back to Hogwarts, the school still had about two weeks before the holidays began, so he couldn't afford to invest that much time right now.

He sighed, then took a moment to gather his thoughts, and reminded himself to be patient. Healing a mind, especially one damaged this severely, could not be rushed.

But Lockhart's nuisance was something he still planned to deal with before the holidays.

The only reason he was going through all this trouble wasn't necessarily to get rid of Lockhart.

For him, it would be easy to make the man disappear permanently without anyone finding out. And if he wanted to go by the book, simply sending the memories anonymously to the right newspapers would be enough to destroy his image.

But Maverick's plan from the beginning was to use Lockhart, while exposing him to increase his people's reputation. So, he had to take this more legal approach.

Then there was only one way. He nodded to himself, making up his mind. But first, let's get started with the treatment of this woman.

---

Three hours later, his consciousness returned to the room.

There was progress—just a sliver, but enough to count. He had poured every ounce of focus into the process, and even then, had only managed to mend a small percentage of the damage.

It's going to take time. A lot more time, he thought.

"Are you back… How is Grandma?"

Just as he was gathering his thoughts, he heard Irene's concerned voice from the side.

He turned slightly and saw the father and daughter standing at the back of the bed, and from their expressions, it looked like they had been there for quite some time.

"There's been a little progress," he said honestly. "But progress. I can't say exactly how long it'll take, but… she's not beyond saving."

Their eyes lit up with cautious hope, so Maverick quickly raised a hand to temper their expectations.

He explained everything truthfully—what he had diagnosed, the limits of what he could do, how much he expected her to recover, and how long it might take—as clearly as possible.

Despite the realism in his words, they did not seem too disappointed. After all, they had already given up hope, so even if this path did not promise a full recovery, it was still far better than what they had imagined possible.

They also agreed to his suggestion that she stay at the facility until the treatment was complete, and one of them would always remain by her side. The location, after all, was in central London—not remote or difficult to access—so they didn't mind.

Maverick then spent another hour working on the second woman, who was suffering from a severe case of short-term amnesia. Compared to the first woman, she was much easier to treat, though still more complicated than Bucky had been.

He estimated that a full recovery would take less than a week—but only if she remained in a controlled, comatose state during that time.

And he intended to keep her that way. Because despite her short-term memory loss, she could still walk, talk, and handle daily life without much trouble. He did not want to complicate things by having to explain everything to her, since even if he did, she would forget soon after. It was better to keep her in a controlled sleep until the treatment was over.

Fortunately, David and Irene offered to take care of her as well.

After making all the necessary arrangements—and informing Bucky and Aisha that one of them should stay to oversee everything and alert him if anything urgent came up—Maverick didn't linger.

He left the quiet room, stepping into a stairwell that led up to a spacious living room.

Still no messages from James.

He pocketed the phone, pulled out another, and made a quick call to Lord Greengrass, giving him a few instructions.

Then, without wasting another moment, Maverick apparated back to Hogwarts.

---

The next day — Ministry of Magic, Britain.

Inside a modest, neatly kept office, a formally robed witch, seemingly in her early forties, stepped in with an air of familiarity. She had dark hair, sharp eyes, and she carried herself with authority and confident purpose.

The office walls were lined with shelves packed with thick, leather-bound books and scattered magical artifacts. Near the window stood a large oak desk, cluttered with parchment and quills, yet everything seemed deliberately placed. A warm glow from the desk lamp filled the room as she settled into her chair and clasped her hands on the surface.

Following her, a middle-aged man came in shortly after, quietly closed the door behind him, and took a seat across from her.

"So, what is it you want to talk about, Lord Greengrass?"

The lord in question was Jamison Greengrass, head of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Greengrass and, at the moment, a guest in this office. The witch seated across from him was none other than Lady Amelia of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Bones, deputy head of Magical Law Enforcement at the British Ministry of Magic.

They were peers in power and legacy, which perhaps explained the lack of ceremony in Amelia's voice. Or maybe that clipped, to-the-point tone was just pure Amelia—blunt, and never one to waste words.

"I came on the instruction of a certain someone... who would like a word with you, Lady Bones."

"Instruction?" Amelia muttered, arching an eyebrow. It was a very particular choice of a word, but she did not press. Instead, she asked, "If it's just to ask for an appointment, why go through all the trouble of meeting me alone in my office?"

Greengrass slowly adjusted the sleeve of his robe. "You shall know soon enough."

Her curiosity was piqued, and she nodded slowly. "Very well. I have no pressing matters on my schedule right now, or we could arrange it for tomorrow."

Instead of answering right away, Lord Greengrass lowered his head, fiddled briefly with a small gadget in his hand, then pocketed it before meeting her gaze again.

"Now would be fine, my lady."

Amelia tilted her head, puzzled, silently asking for more, but Greengrass said nothing and just kept his gaze fixed on the desk.

A flicker of irritation soon crept into her expression, and finally, she could not hold it in any longer and spoke up, "Whoever it is you want me to meet… will they come to the Ministry? Because, frankly, I cannot make any trips today—"

"That will not be necessary."

Before she could finish, a new voice cut through the room—low, steady, and definitely not Lord Greengrass. Her wand was in her hand before she even realized it, snapping toward the sound as she shot to her feet.

"We meet again, Lady Bones."

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