Harry awoke bound to a chair.
It took him a few moments to clear the fog from his mind.
When the memory of the attack resurfaced, he let out a heavy sigh.
“Good evening, Mr. Potter,” a calm voice greeted him.
Harry shook his head irritably.
He had let himself be captured far too easily.
He should have been more vigilant, even with the supposed protection of the wards.
“Why don’t you just take me to Tom and get it over with?” he suggested, in no mood for games.
“Who the bloody hell is Tom?” a second voice demanded angrily.
Harry smirked.
He knew he probably should be afraid, but the emotion simply wasn’t there.
He had always known his confrontation with Riddle would come.
He just hadn’t expected it so soon.
“Your master,” Harry replied dryly.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t know he’s a half-blood. His real name is Tom Riddle. His father was a Muggle.”
“Are you certain they only stunned him?” the first voice asked, ignoring Harry’s taunt.
“They did,” the second confirmed.
“Mr. Potter, I do not know who Tom Riddle is, and that is not why you’re here,” the first man said.
“I apologize for the rough treatment, but we had to act quickly.”
“Then who the bloody hell are you?” Harry snapped.
The man chuckled as Harry finally focused on his captors.
“Oh, shit,” Harry muttered.
This was going to be complicated.
“Indeed,” Croaker agreed.
“You’ve caused us quite the headache these past few weeks.”
“Look, I’m sorry about the damage in the Department,” Harry tried.
“I’ll even pay for it if that’s what this is about.”
“No, Mr. Potter. That is not why you’re here,” Croaker replied, almost ruefully.
“Then what do you want with me?”
Croaker sighed.
“It seems we find ourselves in a position where we must help one another. How much help we offer will depend on your cooperation.”
“What could I possibly do to help you?” Harry asked, genuinely confused.
“I’m just a teenager.”
“You can start by giving us the full contents of the prophecy you retrieved,” the second man cut in sharply.
“I can’t,” Harry said firmly.
“You will,” the man growled, drawing his wand.
“Or I will take it from your mind.”
“Stand down, Filmore,” Croaker ordered.
He turned back to Harry with a more measured tone.
“We need to build some trust, Mr. Potter. Let me explain what we need from you. Share what you can willingly, and we will proceed from there. Either way, you will help us—but it will be far easier on you if you cooperate voluntarily. We are on the same side, I assure you.”
Harry weighed his options.
He could cooperate, or he could refuse and risk having his mind torn apart by Filmore.
He had experienced Legilimency before.
It was not something he wished to repeat.
“What do you need my help with?”
“Good man,” Croaker said, visibly relieved.
“Would you like a drink? This may take a while.”
“Water, please.”
Croaker conjured a glass and handed it over.
He paused thoughtfully before beginning.
“Tell me, Mr. Potter—how many students share your dormitory at Hogwarts?”
Harry frowned at the odd question.
“Five of us altogether.”
“There were twenty in mine,” Croaker replied.
“What does that tell you?”
“That there are far fewer witches and wizards now than there used to be.”
“Exactly,” Croaker said.
“And why do you think that is?”
“Because of the war?”
“Mostly. But the problem runs much deeper.”
Croaker went on to explain the decline of pureblood families, the dangers of inbreeding, the short-lived magical strength of many Muggleborn lines, and the irreversible damage already done to their world.
Harry listened with growing unease as the Unspeakable painted a bleak picture of a dying magical society.
“I still don’t understand what any of this has to do with me,” Harry said finally.
Croaker leaned forward, his expression serious.
“That is why we need the contents of the prophecy. I know it concerns you and the Dark Lord.”