**British Ministry of Magic - International Portkey Office - December 23rd**
Ginny Weasley stepped through the arrival portal with the practiced ease of someone who'd made this journey several times over the past months. The International Portkey Office was busy with holiday travelers—wizards and witches returning home for Christmas, the air filled with excited chatter and the smell of pine garlands conjured for the season.
She adjusted her travel bag on her shoulder and made for the exit, eager to get home to the Burrow. Four months in France had been good for her—the curse-breaking training was challenging, the distance from Harry had helped her heal, and she'd even gone on a few dates with a charming French wizard who worked in her department.
But Christmas was Christmas, and despite everything, she missed her family.
"Miss Weasley?"
Ginny turned to see a witch in official Ministry robes approaching—mid-thirties, brown hair pulled back in a severe bun, carrying a clipboard that marked her as someone with bureaucratic authority.
"Yes?"
"I'm from International Magical Cooperation. There's been a slight issue with your entry documentation." The witch's smile was apologetic. "Nothing serious, just a discrepancy in your work visa status. If you could step into the processing office for a moment, we can sort it out quickly."
Ginny frowned. "My visa is valid through next June. I checked before I left."
"I'm sure it is, but the system flagged something. Probably just a clerical error." The witch gestured toward a side corridor, away from the main traffic. "It'll only take five minutes, I promise. Otherwise you might have issues when you return to France next week."
Something about this felt off. Ginny's hand drifted toward her wand.
"Can't we do this here? In the main office?"
"The private offices have the necessary documentation access." The witch's smile didn't waver, but her eyes hardened slightly. "Please, Miss Weasley. It's Ministry protocol."
Ginny hesitated. Four months ago—before France, before distance and healing—she would have gone with her gut and refused. Would have recognized danger in the way this woman stood, in the corridor she was being led toward.
But four months of peace had dulled her edges. Made her forget that war might be over, but danger never truly disappeared.
"Fine," Ginny said. "But quickly. My family's expecting me."
She followed the witch down the side corridor, and didn't notice the way the crowds seemed to part unnaturally. Didn't see the subtle Notice-Me-Not charms activating around them. Didn't realize until too late that the corridor was growing darker, quieter, more isolated than any Ministry hallway should be.
"Wait—" Ginny began, reaching for her wand.
"*Petrificus Totalus!*"
The curse hit her from behind—not from the woman she'd been following, but from someone else. Ginny's body locked up, rigid, and she toppled forward. The fake Ministry witch caught her with a levitation charm, and Ginny saw her expression shift from bureaucratic to coldly satisfied.
"Took you long enough, Rookwood," the woman said, and a man emerged from an alcove Ginny hadn't noticed—tall, scarred, eyes that spoke of Azkaban and dark magic.
Augustus Rookwood. Death Eater. One of the ones who'd escaped justice after the war by fleeing the country.
*No*, Ginny thought desperately, trying to force her frozen muscles to move. *No no no—*
"She's smaller than I expected," Rookwood observed, examining Ginny like she was a specimen. "This is the girl Potter's obsessed with?"
"Was obsessed with," the woman corrected. "According to our information, he's moved on. Courting pureblood heiresses now. She's yesterday's news."
The words hurt worse than the curse.
"Good," Rookwood said. "Makes her more vulnerable. Alright—let's get her to the rendezvous point. The master's waiting."
*Master?* Ginny's mind raced. *Voldemort is dead. Harry killed him. Who—*
A bag went over her head, blocking out the light. Ginny felt the sickening pull of side-along apparition, and when the world stopped spinning, the bag was removed to reveal—
The Forbidden Forest.
The clearing with the standing stones.
And Winky, standing in the center with Mad-Eye Moody's electric blue eye in her small hands.
Except Winky's eyes weren't her own anymore. They glowed with the same unnatural blue as the eye she held, and when she smiled, it was wrong. Twisted. The expression of someone else wearing the house-elf's face like an ill-fitting mask.
"Excellent work," Winky's mouth said, but the voice was male. Young. Cultured. Completely wrong for the little elf's form. "Bring her to the cauldron. It's time to begin."
Ginny tried to scream, but the full body-bind held firm.
She could only watch in frozen horror as Rookwood levitated her toward a massive cauldron that hadn't been there moments ago—conjured or revealed, she couldn't tell. Inside, a potion bubbled with nauseating colors, and the smell that rose from it made her gag even through the paralysis.
"*Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son.*"
Winky—or whoever was controlling her—held up a yellowed bone, and Ginny recognized it with sick certainty. This was a resurrection ritual. Like the one Voldemort had used, but twisted, modified, powered by different magic.
The bone dissolved into the cauldron with a hiss.
"*Flesh of the servant, willingly given, you will revive your master.*"
Winky raised a silver knife, and before Ginny could process what was happening, the possessed elf drew the blade across her own hand. Blood dripped into the potion, black and wrong.
Not elf blood.
The blood of whatever was possessing her.
"*Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe.*"
Rookwood brought Ginny close to the cauldron's edge. The woman who'd tricked her held out a knife—not silver, but crystal, glowing with captured moonlight.
Ginny fought against the paralysis with everything she had. Her magic roiled inside her, desperate for release, but the body-bind was too strong. She could only watch as the crystal blade came toward her, as it touched the skin of her arm—
"*For Harry Potter!*" the possessed Winky shrieked, and the blade cut deep.
Blood welled up, crimson and bright, and flowed into the cauldron.
The potion erupted.
Flames shot upward, white-hot and roaring. The clearing filled with smoke and steam and the smell of dark magic so concentrated it tasted like copper and ashes. Ginny's body was released from paralysis as Rookwood dropped her, too busy shielding himself from the ritual's backlash.
She hit the ground hard, gasping, her arm bleeding freely. Through streaming eyes, she watched as the cauldron cracked, split, and something emerged from the bubbling remains.
A figure. Thin, pale, humanoid.
Rookwood conjured robes and threw them at the form. It caught them with surprising grace and dressed itself, and when it straightened fully, Ginny saw his face.
Young. Handsome in a sharp, aristocratic way. Dark hair slicked back, eyes that burned with fanatical intelligence and barely-restrained madness.
Barty Crouch Junior.
Alive. *Whole*. Grinning with the triumph of someone who'd cheated death itself.
"Hello, Miss Weasley," he said, his voice the same one that had spoken through Winky's mouth. "Thank you for your donation. It was most... generous."
He looked down at his hands, flexing new fingers, examining new flesh. Then he laughed—high and cold and completely unhinged.
"I'm back," he whispered. "I'm actually *back*." He turned to Rookwood and the woman. "How long?"
"Four years, my lord," Rookwood said, bowing. "Since the Dementors—"
"Don't speak of it!" Crouch's voice cracked like a whip. Then, calmer: "It doesn't matter. What matters is I've returned. And now—" his eyes found Ginny again, cold and calculating, "—now we send a message to Harry Potter. Tell him an old enemy has risen. Tell him the war he thought he'd won was only the beginning."
Ginny tried to stand, to run, but her legs wouldn't cooperate. Blood loss and shock were catching up with her.
"What—" she gasped, "what do you want with Harry?"
"Want? *Want?*" Crouch laughed again. "I want to finish what my master started. But first, I want to break the Boy Who Lived. Want to show him that death isn't permanent. That loyalty can be twisted. That everything he loves—" he gestured at Ginny, "—can be taken away."
He turned to Rookwood. "Take her to the safehouse. Keep her alive but contained. She's our insurance policy. When Potter inevitably comes charging to her rescue—and he will, the noble fool—we'll be ready."
"And then?" the woman asked.
"And then we remind the world what it means to fear," Crouch said softly. "We remind them that the Death Eaters weren't defeated. Just... delayed."
Ginny felt the pull of apparition again, and this time when she arrived—in some dark basement that stank of mildew and old magic—she finally lost consciousness.
Her last thought was a desperate prayer: *Harry, please. Please be fast enough to save me.*
---
**The Burrow - 11:47 PM - Same Night**
Molly Weasley was pacing.
"She should have been here hours ago," she said for the fifth time, wringing her hands. "The Portkey was scheduled for six o'clock. It's nearly midnight!"
Arthur tried to be comforting, but his own worry showed. "Maybe she decided to stay an extra day in France. Christmas Eve with colleagues—"
"Without telling us? Without sending an owl?" Molly shook her head. "No. Something's wrong."
Harry felt it too. He'd apparated to the Burrow an hour ago, fresh from training in Central City, and the moment he'd arrived, something had felt *off*. Like static in the air. Like the moment before lightning struck.
"I'll check with the Ministry," he said, already moving toward the Floo. "See if her Portkey arrived on schedule."
"Harry, wait—" Hermione began.
But Harry was already gone, powder thrown, fire roaring green. "*Ministry of Magic, Atrium!*"
He tumbled out of the fireplace into the Ministry's main hall—mostly empty at this late hour, just a few night-shift workers and security. Harry's armor materialized automatically, the plates forming around him in a spiral of crimson and gold.
The security wizard at the desk nearly fell out of his chair. "Death Speed! Sir! What—"
"Ginny Weasley. International Portkey arrival. Six PM today. Where is she?" Harry's modulated voice carried urgency and barely-restrained panic.
The wizard's hands shook as he accessed the logs. "Let me check— Miss Ginevra Weasley, Portkey from Lyon, scheduled arrival 18:00 hours. According to the system, she cleared customs and left through the main exit at—" he paused, frowning. "At 18:14."
"But she never made it home," Harry said. "Where would she have gone between the Ministry and the Burrow?"
"I—I don't know, sir. Perhaps she stopped for shopping? Or to visit friends?"
"Show me the security footage," Harry demanded.
"The what?"
"The magical surveillance! The monitoring charms! Show me!" Harry's patience was fraying. The armor crackled with increased lightning—both colors intensifying with his rising fear.
"We don't—the Ministry doesn't have comprehensive monitoring of—"
Harry's fist slammed onto the desk, leaving a crater in the wood. Not intentionally—just the strength in his armor responding to emotion.
The wizard stumbled backward. "I'll—I'll get the Aurors! Please don't—"
"Do it," Harry said through clenched teeth. "Get them now. And someone find out what happened to Ginny Weasley in the last six hours, or I start tearing this building apart to find answers."
He meant it. Every word.
Because the static feeling in the air was getting worse. The sense that something dark had happened. That someone he cared about was in danger.
And if Harry had learned anything over the past months—anything from walking toward death and coming back—it was that when he got this feeling, it was never wrong.
Ginny was in trouble.
And somewhere in the darkness, something ancient and terrible was laughing.
---
**The Burrow - War Room - 12:15 AM**
The kitchen table had been transformed into a command center.
Harry stood at its head, his armor fully manifested, the crimson and gold lightning casting dancing shadows across the walls. Hermione had conjured a massive map of Britain and marked the Ministry with a glowing red X. Ron paced nearby, his face pale but determined. And sitting across from each other—in what would have been an awkward situation under any other circumstances—were Daphne Greengrass and Susan Bones.
"Tell me again," Harry said, his modulated voice tight with controlled panic. "Everything the Ministry said."
Hermione consulted her notes, her own hands shaking slightly. "Ginny's Portkey arrived on schedule at 18:00. She cleared international customs at 18:07. Security logs show her leaving through the main exit at 18:14. After that—nothing. No Floo records, no apparition signatures registered with the Ministry, no further sightings."
"Seven minutes," Harry said. "She was in the Ministry for seven minutes after customs. What happened in those seven minutes?"
"The Aurors are reviewing what surveillance charms they have," Arthur Weasley said from the fireplace, his face grim in the flames. He was still at the Ministry, coordinating with the official investigation. "But Harry, the Ministry's monitoring is limited. They don't track every witch and wizard's movements—"
"They should," Harry snapped. Then, forcing calm: "Sorry. I just—seven minutes. Something happened in seven minutes that made her disappear."
"Or someone made her disappear," Daphne said quietly. She'd arrived fifteen minutes ago with Susan after Hermione's emergency owl. Both girls had put aside any awkwardness about their situation to help. "Harry, if this was planned—if someone was waiting for her—"
"Then they knew she was coming home," Susan finished. "Knew when her Portkey would arrive. Knew where to intercept her."
"But who?" Ron demanded. "Who'd want to kidnap Ginny? The war's over. The Death Eaters are dead or in Azkaban or—"
He stopped, seeing Harry's expression.
"Not all of them," Harry said softly. The armor pulsed with darker energy—more crimson than gold now, responding to the cold fury building in his chest. "Some escaped. Fled the country. Rookwood, Yaxley, a few others. They're still out there."
"But why target Ginny?" Hermione asked. "Why now, after all this time?"
Harry's mind raced through possibilities at superspeed. "To get to me. She's—even though we're not together anymore, everyone knows she matters to me. If someone wants to hurt me, she's—"
He couldn't finish. Couldn't voice the terrible reality that Ginny was in danger *because* of him.
"We need to search," he said abruptly. "The Ministry's moving too slowly. I can cover ground faster than an army of Aurors. If she's being held anywhere in Britain, I can find her."
"Britain is a big place," Daphne pointed out practically. "Even for you. You need a strategy, not just speed."
"She's right," Susan added. "If you just run randomly, you'll waste time and energy. We need to narrow down the possibilities."
Harry wanted to argue. Wanted to just *run*, to move so fast he could search every inch of the country in hours. But they were right. Even with superspeed, he needed direction.
"Okay," he forced out. "Strategy. What do we know?"
Hermione moved to the map, her analytical mind already working. "Ginny disappeared from the Ministry at 18:14. If she was taken against her will, they'd need somewhere to bring her. Somewhere secure, somewhere they wouldn't be discovered."
"Somewhere with anti-apparition wards," Ron added. "Otherwise she'd just apparate away the moment they dropped their guard."
"And somewhere relatively close to the Ministry," Daphne said, studying the map. "If they took her in broad daylight, they'd want to minimize travel time. Less chance of being seen or tracked."
"How fast can you search, Harry?" Susan asked. "If we mark potential locations, how quickly can you check them?"
Harry's helmet tilted as he calculated. "Depends on distance. Within London? I can hit a dozen locations in under a minute. Farther out—Scotland, Wales—maybe five minutes per major region."
"That's still faster than any Auror team," Hermione said. She began marking the map with potential locations. "Abandoned Death Eater properties. Places we know they used during the war. Rookwood had a safehouse in Yorkshire. Yaxley owned property in Cornwall."
"Mark them all," Harry said. "Every location you can think of. I'll check each one."
For the next ten minutes, they worked with frantic efficiency. Hermione's encyclopedic knowledge of Death Eater hideouts. Ron's memories from the Auror training he'd started. Daphne's surprising familiarity with pureblood property records—apparently useful when researching contract law. Susan's recollection of locations her aunt had investigated.
Twenty-three potential sites marked across Britain.
"I'll need communication," Harry said, studying the map. "Some way to stay in touch while I'm searching. If I find something, I'll need backup immediately."
"Protean Charm," Hermione said, already pulling out fake Galleons—the same kind she'd used for the DA. "I can link these to show your location and status. We'll know where you are at all times."
She performed the charm with practiced efficiency, and suddenly the coins glowed with a map matching the one on the table. A crimson dot marked Harry's position.
"Brilliant," Harry breathed. "Okay. Ron, you coordinate with your dad at the Ministry. Keep the official investigation moving. Hermione, you stay here and monitor my position. If I signal for help—"
"I'll get word to the Aurors immediately," she promised.
"Daphne, Susan—" Harry hesitated. He hadn't wanted to involve them in this. Hadn't wanted to drag them into danger. But he needed all the help he could get. "Can you two research? See if there's been any chatter in pureblood circles about Death Eater activity? Any rumors or—"
"We're already on it," Daphne said, pulling out her own communication mirror. "I have contacts. People who owe my family favors. If there's been any suspicious activity, we'll find out."
"The Bones family maintained intelligence networks during the war," Susan added. "Some of those contacts are still active. I'll start making calls."
Harry looked at them—all of them. Ron and Hermione, his oldest friends. Daphne and Susan, who'd somehow become partners in this impossible situation. All of them ready to help, to fight, to do whatever it took to bring Ginny home.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "All of you. I know this is—"
"She's one of us," Ron interrupted firmly. "Family. We don't leave family behind."
"And you clearly still care about her," Daphne added with surprising gentleness. "Contracts or not, courtship or not—she matters to you. So she matters to us."
Something in Harry's chest tightened. Not romantic—just gratitude. Pure and simple.
"I'll find her," he promised. "I'll bring her home."
The helmet snapped back into place, golden lenses blazing.
And Harry Potter—Death Speed, Mors Velocitas—became a blur of crimson and gold lightning that exploded from the Burrow fast enough to rattle every window in the house.
---
**Harry's Search - 12:27 AM - 2:41 AM**
*Location One: Rookwood Safehouse, Yorkshire - 12:29 AM*
The world was frozen crystal as Harry moved through it at Mach 5.
He'd pushed past the sound barrier within seconds of leaving the Burrow, and now Britain spread out beneath him like a map made real. Cities were clusters of light. Roads were veins of illumination. And Harry was the lightning racing between them, faster than thought, faster than fear.
The Yorkshire safehouse materialized in his enhanced perception—a decrepit manor on the edge of the moors, dark and seemingly abandoned.
Harry decelerated in the courtyard, his arrival creating a sonic boom that shattered every window simultaneously. He didn't care about subtlety. Didn't care about surprising anyone. If Ginny was here, speed was more important than stealth.
The armor's sensors swept the building—infrared, magical resonance, motion detection. Empty. Completely empty. Not even residual magical signatures.
*Strike one.*
He was moving again before the glass finished falling.
*Location Two: Yaxley Property, Cornwall - 12:31 AM*
Two minutes to cross half the country. The manor here was larger, better maintained. Protected by wards that sparked and fizzled as Harry phased through them.
The armor's crimson lightning flared—Death's power cutting through the magical barriers like they were cobwebs. Inside, dust and darkness. Furniture covered with sheets. No sign of recent habitation.
*Strike two.*
*Location Three: Carrow Estate, Shropshire - 12:34 AM*
Burned. The entire property was ash and rubble, destroyed during the final battles of the war and never rebuilt.
*Strike three.*
Harry moved through the locations with mechanical efficiency, checking each one in under three minutes. His enhanced perception let him process entire buildings in seconds—seeing through walls with the armor's sensors, detecting life signs and magical signatures, leaving no stone unturned.
Location four: empty.
Location five: occupied by squatters, but none of them magical.
Location six: a pile of rubble.
Location seven: empty.
*She's not in any of these places,* Harry thought desperately as he raced toward location eight. *Why isn't she in any of these places?*
---
**The Burrow - War Room - 1:15 AM**
Hermione tracked Harry's position on the enchanted Galleon, watching the crimson dot race from point to point with inhuman speed.
"He's checked fourteen locations in under an hour," she said, awed despite her worry. "That's—that's faster than I calculated he could move."
"He's motivated," Ron said grimly, returning from another check-in with his father. "Dad says the Aurors have found nothing. No witnesses, no magical traces. Whoever took Ginny knew what they were doing."
"Or they had inside help," Daphne said, looking up from her communication mirror. Her expression was troubled. "I just heard back from one of my contacts. There's been chatter about a Ministry employee who went missing two days ago. Low-level clerk in International Magical Cooperation."
"The department that handles Portkey arrivals," Susan added, following the thread. "If someone compromised that department—"
"They could intercept travelers without raising immediate suspicion," Hermione finished. "Make it look official. Routine."
"We need to tell Harry," Ron said.
"Tell him what?" Hermione asked. "That we have a theory but no concrete information? He's already running himself ragged checking every location we marked. Unless we have actual intelligence—"
"Then we find actual intelligence," Daphne said firmly. She stood, gathering her things. "Susan, come with me. We're going to the Ministry. I want to see the personnel records for International Magical Cooperation. Someone will know something."
"The Ministry's locked down at night," Ron pointed out.
Daphne's smile was pure Slytherin. "Then it's a good thing I know people who have access." She looked at Hermione. "Keep tracking Harry. The moment we find anything, we'll send word."
They left through the Floo, and Ron turned to Hermione with raised eyebrows.
"When did they get so competent?"
"They've always been competent," Hermione said distractedly, still watching the map. "We just never paid attention. Harry's nineteenth location. Still nothing."
"He's going to run out of places to look," Ron said quietly.
"I know," Hermione whispered. "And then what?"
---
**Location Twenty-One: Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire - 2:18 AM**
Harry hesitated before approaching this one.
Malfoy Manor held memories—bad ones. Bellatrix's torture of Hermione. Dobby's death. The weight of captivity and helplessness.
But it was also a known Death Eater location, and he couldn't afford to skip it.
The manor was dark but not abandoned. Narcissa Malfoy lived here still, having been pardoned for her role in saving Harry's life during the war. As Harry approached at subsonic speeds, he saw lights in the windows. Someone awake at this ungodly hour.
He decelerated in the courtyard more carefully this time—no sonic boom, no destroyed windows. This required a different approach.
The front door opened before he could knock, and Narcissa Malfoy stood there in elegant nightrobes, her wand lowered but ready.
"Death Speed," she said, her voice cool but not hostile. "I felt the wards react to your arrival. What brings you to my home at two in the morning?"
"Ginny Weasley," Harry said, not bothering with pleasantries. His helmet retracted. "She's been kidnapped. I'm searching for her. I need to know if you've seen or heard anything—any Death Eater activity, any old contacts resurfacing—"
"I have heard nothing," Narcissa said, but her expression shifted to genuine concern. "The Weasley girl? But why would—" She stopped. "To hurt you. Of course. They'd target someone you care about."
"Do you know where?" Harry asked desperately. "Please. I know we have history, I know your family—but if you know anything—"
"I don't," Narcissa said firmly. "The Death Eaters who remain free want nothing to do with me. I turned against the Dark Lord. Testified at trials. I'm a pariah to them, Potter."
Harry's shoulders slumped.
"But," Narcissa continued, "there is someone who might know. Someone with connections to the remaining Death Eaters. Someone who owes you a life debt."
"Who?"
"My son." Narcissa's voice was quiet. "Draco is in London. Staying at our townhouse. He's been... trying to atone. Offering information to the Aurors about remaining sympathizers. If anyone would know about renewed Death Eater activity, it would be him."
Hope sparked in Harry's chest. "Where?"
Narcissa gave him the address, then caught his arm before he could leave.
"Potter—Harry. I don't know what you'll find. But whatever it is—" her eyes were serious, "—don't lose yourself in vengeance. Don't become what they were. The girl wouldn't want that."
"I know," Harry said. "But I can't promise anything if they've hurt her."
He was gone before Narcissa could respond, leaving her standing in the doorway staring at the space where crimson and gold lightning had been.
---
**Malfoy Townhouse, London - 2:24 AM**
Draco Malfoy was not having a good night.
He couldn't sleep—hadn't slept well since the war ended, really. The nightmares were constant. The weight of everything he'd done, everything he'd failed to do, crushing him slowly.
So he sat in his study with a glass of Firewhisky, staring at files of Death Eater sympathizers he was helping the Aurors track down. Penance, his mother called it. Self-flagellation, his father would have said.
The window exploded inward.
Not shattered—*exploded*, glass turning to powder as something moving faster than sound decelerated in Draco's study. Lightning—crimson and gold—resolved into an armored figure that Draco recognized from news reports and wanted posters.
Death Speed.
Harry Potter.
"Malfoy," the modulated voice said, and even through the mechanical enhancement, Draco could hear the barely-controlled desperation. "I need information. Now."
"Potter?" Draco stood, his hand going to his wand instinctively before he remembered that would be spectacularly stupid. "What—"
"Ginny Weasley's been kidnapped." The helmet retracted, revealing Harry's face—pale, strained, eyes burning with intensity that made Draco take a step back. "Your mother said you have intelligence on remaining Death Eaters. I need to know—have you heard anything? Any activity, any plans, anything that might tell me who took her?"
Draco's mind raced. Ginny Weasley. The blood traitor's daughter. Potter's—well, it was complicated now with the betrothal contracts, but still someone Potter clearly cared about.
"I—" Draco hesitated. "There's been chatter. Nothing concrete. Rumors about someone trying to rally the remaining faithful. Offering promises of a new beginning."
"Who?" Harry's voice was dangerously quiet.
"I don't know. The information is third-hand at best. But whoever it is, they've been recruiting. Targeting people who escaped Azkaban or fled the country. Promising them—" Draco swallowed, "—promising them revenge against you, specifically."
"Against me?" Harry's armor flared with increased lightning. "Why me?"
"Because you're the one who ended it." Draco said flatly. "You killed the Dark Lord. Destroyed his Horcruxes. Became this—" he gestured at the armor, "—this thing that's faster and stronger than anything they've seen. They hate you, Potter. And hurting the people you love is the only way they can strike back."
Harry's hands clenched into fists. "Where? Where would they take her?"
"I don't know," Draco admitted. "But the chatter mentioned the Forest of Dean. Something about old magic there. Sacred ground to some of the Death Eaters' darker rituals."
The Forest of Dean.
Harry's enhanced memory supplied the location instantly—where they'd camped during the Horcrux hunt. Where he'd retrieved the Sword of Gryffindor. Where—
Where he'd buried Mad-Eye Moody's magical eye.
Something clicked in Harry's mind. A terrible possibility that he desperately hoped was wrong.
"If you're lying to me—" Harry began.
"I'm not," Draco interrupted. "Potter, I—" He struggled with the words. "I owe you. For the Room of Requirement. For testifying at my trial. For—for not being the complete bastard you had every right to become. So I'm telling you everything I know. The Forest of Dean. That's where the rumors center. That's where you'll find answers."
Harry's helmet snapped back into place. He turned toward the broken window—
"Potter," Draco called out. "When you find her—and you will, you're too stubborn not to—don't do anything stupid. Don't give them what they want."
"What do they want?"
"You," Draco said quietly. "They want you to lose control. To prove that even the great Harry Potter can be broken. Don't give them the satisfaction."
Harry stared at him for a long moment. Then: "Thanks, Malfoy. I'll—I'll fix your window."
"Forget the window. Just bring her home."
Harry vanished in a crack of displaced air and lightning.
Draco slumped back into his chair, drained his Firewhisky, and immediately sent a Patronus to his mother: *I helped Potter. If this goes wrong, it's not on you.*
Then he grabbed his wand and headed for the Floo.
He might be a reformed Death Eater with a guilty conscience, but that didn't mean he couldn't help clean up the mess his side had made.
---
**The Burrow - War Room - 2:31 AM**
"HERMIONE!"
Ron's shout brought everyone running. He stood over the communication mirror Daphne had left, his face pale.
"Daphne just sent word. They found the clerk—the one from International Magical Cooperation. Dead. Killed three days ago. Someone's been using Polyjuice to impersonate her."
"So Ginny was intercepted by someone posing as Ministry personnel," Hermione said, her analytical mind already working. "They walked her right out of the building without anyone questioning it. But who—"
The Galleon in her hand flared hot.
Harry's position had changed dramatically. He was moving faster than she'd ever seen—Mach 7 at least, maybe higher. Racing toward—
"The Forest of Dean," she breathed. "He's going to the Forest of Dean. But why—"
Her eyes widened. "Ron, get your father on the Floo. Now. Tell him Death Speed is heading to the Forest of Dean and he needs Auror backup there immediately."
"What's in the Forest of Dean?"
"A graveyard," Hermione said grimly. "A place where Harry buried something dangerous. And if someone's desecrated it—if they've found what he buried—"
She didn't finish.
She didn't have to.
Because the Galleon was burning in her hand now, Harry's position was marked not with a calm crimson dot but with pulsing warning signals.
He'd found something.
And whatever it was, it was about to get very bad, very fast.
---
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