Chapter 19: Time to Confess
Harry and Mycroft landed with a jarring crack, the world spinning as they stumbled onto the rugged shore of the private island. Mycroft, immediately overwhelmed by the disorienting effects of side-along Apparition, doubled over and vomited violently onto the dirt. He had only endured this particular mode of magical travel twice before, and neither time had gone any better. It was entirely inelegant. Harry, accustomed to the rough landing, merely steadied himself, his eyes already scanning their surroundings with the keen alertness of a seasoned Auror.
The island was bleak and isolated, with jagged cliffs that plunged into a restless sea and a thick, almost impenetrable line of trees that loomed just beyond the shore. It was a place designed for secrecy and confinement, a location lost to maps and forgotten by time. Mycroft wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, tucking it away with a forced composure, and gestured for Harry to follow.
"This way," Mycroft muttered, his voice tight. Harry fell into step behind him, his wand drawn, ready for anything. They jogged along a narrow dirt track that wound through the underbrush, each step crunching against the rocky terrain. After several minutes, the path gave way to a massive military complex, its gray, utilitarian walls towering high, topped with barbed wire and bristling with surveillance cameras. The facility loomed ahead, imposing and foreboding, like a giant crouching in the shadows.
Harry's gaze fell on a sleek black helicopter parked at the edge of the complex, its blades still and silent. Mycroft glanced at it and nodded grimly. "That's mine" he said, his voice edged with a mix of anxiety and determination. "They were here."
Harry tightened his grip on his wand, every muscle tense. "What is this place, Mycroft? What kind of case did you send Sherlock into?"
Mycroft's face hardened, his eyes flicking away. "It's a prison," he said curtly. "One designed to hold… a powerful magical being."
Harry frowned, his suspicion mounting. "Azkaban's for magical prisoners. Why isn't this one there?"
Mycroft opened his mouth to answer, but his gaze was drawn to the building entrance up ahead, the heavy steel door slightly ajar. Harry, ever alert, signaled Mycroft to stay back as he stepped forward cautiously, wand raised, and pushed the door open. They entered a dimly lit control center, the air thick and scented with something darker—blood. At the center of the room sat a man slumped in a chair, his head lolling back at an unnatural angle, a bullet wound cleanly through his temple. Harry's eyes narrowed as he surveyed the scene. There were no signs of a struggle, no disturbance, just the unsettling stillness of death.
"They were here," Mycroft whispered, more to himself than to Harry. He moved toward an open doorway on the far side of the room, drawn by a compulsion he couldn't quite articulate. Harry followed, his wand emitting a soft glow that barely pierced the shadows.
Beyond the doorway lay a small, cramped room lined with photographs. Mycroft hesitated at the threshold, his eyes straining in the darkness, blurred faces captured in each frame. He could make out vague outlines—a child's figure here, another there—but the details eluded him. He stepped inside, feeling a strange tug of familiarity, yet unable to piece together the truth.
Harry, sensing the significance of the room, raised his wand higher and cast a powerful Lumos. The sudden burst of light flooded the space, and the images sprang to life. Mycroft froze, his breath catching as the truth settled over him. It was a gallery of his forgotten past—snapshots of his family, the siblings he had tried so hard to protect. Sherlock, young and wiry, his face shadowed by uncertainty, and beside him, Eurus, her expression enigmatic, holding a sunflower in her small hand.
Harry's eyes landed on one photo in particular, a candid shot of Sherlock standing awkwardly beside Eurus. "Is that Sherlock?" he asked, pointing with his wand.
"Yes," Mycroft said stiffly, his voice hollow. He didn't elaborate, didn't offer the obvious connection to Eurus standing beside Sherlock. To say her name aloud would make this all too real, and Mycroft wasn't ready to concede that yet, not when there might still be a way to shield Sherlock—and himself—from the full truth.
Harry's gaze lingered on the photographs, his expression darkening. He could sense Mycroft's reluctance, the layers of secrecy still wrapped around every answer. "Why are these here?" he asked, his tone sharp with impatience. "Why would anyone have pictures of your brother?"
Mycroft didn't respond, his eyes fixed on the images as if willing them to blur back into obscurity. He turned abruptly and led Harry through the next open doorway. They entered a room that looked as though a storm had torn through it. Splintered wood littered the floor, and the shattered remains of a coffin lay strewn about in jagged pieces. The air was heavy with the coppery scent of blood, and crimson spots marred the floor, a violent contrast to the sterile surroundings.
Harry moved swiftly, his Auror training guiding him as he examined the blood. He performed a spell, the tip of his wand glowing as he whispered the incantation. A name materialized in the air, spelled out in shimmering letters: *Sherlock Holmes*. Mycroft stared, his expression shifting from confusion to dread.
"That's Sherlock's blood," Harry said, his voice taut with urgency. Mycroft's mind raced, struggling to piece together what had happened here.
The reality hit him with the force of a physical blow—Sherlock had been here, and he'd been hurt.
Mycroft's gaze swept the room, taking in the destruction. "We need to leave," he said urgently. "Sherlock and John clearly aren't here anymore."
Harry, however, wasn't willing to be dismissed so easily. He stepped in front of Mycroft, blocking his path, his eyes blazing with determination. "Enough," Harry snapped, his voice cutting through the tense silence like a knife. "Stop with the evasions, Mycroft. Hermione is dying. If you care about her at all, you'll stop holding back. I'm done with the delays, with the half-truths. You don't get to keep us in the dark when her life hangs in the balance. Tell me what the hell is going on, or so help me, I will drag the truth out of you by force."
Mycroft flinched at the ferocity in Harry's voice, the threat palpable in the air between them. For a moment, he considered holding his ground, maintaining his veneer of control. But the weight of Harry's words, the desperate urgency, pierced through the walls Mycroft had built around his secrets. He sighed, a heavy, resigned sound, and looked Harry square in the eye.
"Eurus," he began, the name falling from his lips like a confession. "Eurus is my sister, Sherlock's sister. She's… well, she's unlike anyone you've ever encountered. Brilliant, beyond measure, but volatile. Dangerous. From the moment she was born, she was different—intense, unpredictable. As a child, she could do things none of us understood. Her magic was wild, untrained, and she scared everyone, even me."
Harry listened, his expression unyielding, as Mycroft continued. "When she received her letter to Hogwarts, I thought it would help. That they'd be able to guide her, to channel her abilities for something good. But her powers… they grew too rapidly, uncontrollably, and she never made it to Hogwarts. In the weeks leading up to her departure, she killed Sherlock's best friend, Billy. She was only eleven, just a child, and it was a terrible accident."
Mycroft's voice grew softer, tinged with a sorrow he rarely let show. "When the Aurors arrived to take her away to Azkaban, Eurus overheard them. She wouldn't go quietly. In a fit of rage, she conjured a fire so fierce it burned our childhood home to the ground. The Aurors searched the ruins but couldn't find her body. They presumed she was dead. I told them that—that she hadn't made it out."
Harry's eyes were locked on Mycroft, unblinking. Mycroft continued, his tone hardening as he pushed through the painful memories. "I found her. I took her and brought her here, to this facility. I was trying to protect her, to keep her safe from the world—and the world safe from her. She's been here ever since."
Mycroft's face twisted, guilt and frustration warring in his expression. "A few years ago, I made a terrible mistake. I granted Eurus a gift—a five-minute conversation with Moriarty. I thought it would be harmless, that it would placate her. But I was wrong. He told her of the world, of Sherlock, and she never stopped plotting, never stopped trying to manipulate her way out of this place. She wants to hurt us for abandoning her, especially Sherlock."
Harry's anger simmered, but he understood now the depth of the danger they were in. "Show me to her cell," Harry demanded, his voice brooking no argument. "Now."
Mycroft hesitated for only a moment before nodding, leading Harry down a series of narrow corridors, each turn bringing them deeper into the heart of the complex. The walls seemed to close in around them, the air growing colder and more oppressive with each step.
--
Harry and Mycroft moved quickly through the maze of corridors, the air thick with tension. The facility's cold, sterile walls reflected the severity of its purpose—a prison for the dangerous, the uncontainable. Every step they took deeper into this place felt like another descent into a hidden abyss.
Mycroft's expression was steely, but Harry could see the cracks of worry beneath his composed exterior. He knew that bringing Harry here meant unveiling truths Mycroft had buried for decades, truths that even the great Sherlock Holmes had been kept in the dark about. Harry kept his wand ready, his senses heightened to every sound and shift in the air. The eerie quiet of the facility seemed to grow heavier with each step, pressing in on them like a physical weight.
They rounded a corner, entering a starkly lit corridor that stretched out like an unending tunnel. Harry's eyes darted to the security cameras lining the ceiling, their lenses cracked and hanging uselessly from their mounts. Whoever had come through here had done so with precision and intent. There was no room for mistakes. Mycroft quickened his pace, his footsteps echoing against the concrete.
"We're almost there," Mycroft said tersely, his voice echoing in the narrow space. He pointed to a heavy steel door at the far end of the hall, its surface marred with scratches and dents, as if it had withstood countless attempts at forced entry. Harry's breath caught. The atmosphere grew colder, almost unnatural, and he could feel the faint thrum of magical energy radiating from beyond the door. Harry picked up his pace, time was nearly up - 25 minutes to find John.
