**Three Broomsticks, Hogsmeade - Sunday Afternoon**
Harry arrived early, which gave him time to be nervous.
The pub was busy with the weekend crowd—former Hogwarts students, villagers, a few tourists who'd heard about the famous wizarding establishment. Madam Rosmerta smiled when she saw him, though her expression carried the weight of someone who'd seen him grow from an eleven-year-old to whatever he was now.
"Harry, dear. Table for two?"
"Please," Harry confirmed. "Somewhere quiet?"
She led him to a corner booth, away from the main crowd, and Harry settled in to wait.
Susan Bones arrived exactly on time, looking determinedly cheerful in casual robes of soft yellow. Her red hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail, and she carried herself with the easy confidence of someone who'd decided to make the best of things.
"Potter—Harry," she corrected herself, sliding into the booth across from him. "You look terrified. Should I be offended?"
"No! I just—" Harry realized she was teasing and managed a slight smile. "This is all still really weird."
"Agreed." Susan accepted a butterbeer from Rosmerta with a grateful nod. "But we're doing it anyway, so we might as well lean into the weirdness. How was your date with Daphne?"
"You know about that?"
"Of course I know. We're all bound by the same impossible situation—we talk." Susan took a sip of her drink. "Besides, Daphne and I have known each other since we were children. Our families moved in similar circles. She told me it wasn't terrible."
"High praise," Harry said, echoing his own words to Daphne.
"From Daphne Greengrass? Absolutely." Susan's smile was genuine. "She doesn't give compliments easily. If she said it wasn't terrible, that means she actually enjoyed herself."
"Did she tell you that?"
"She told me you were honest," Susan said. "That you didn't pretend or force anything. That you treated her like a person instead of an obligation." Her expression softened. "That matters more than you probably realize. Most purebloods in arranged situations just go through the motions. You're actually *trying*."
"I promised I would," Harry said simply. "Seemed like the least I could do."
They ordered lunch—steak and kidney pie for him, shepherd's pie for her—and fell into easier conversation than Harry had expected. Susan was different from Daphne in subtle ways. Where Daphne was precise and analytical, Susan was intuitive and warm. Where Daphne carefully constructed her words, Susan spoke with an openness that suggested she'd decided honesty was easier than pretense.
"Tell me about being Death Speed," Susan said as they ate. "I've seen the footage, heard the stories, but I want to hear it from you. What's it like?"
Harry considered how to explain. "It's like... you know that feeling right before you jump into cold water? Where you're terrified and exhilarated at the same time?"
"Yes?"
"It's that, but constantly. Every time I tap into the Speed Force, every time I run faster than sound—there's this moment of *yes, this is right* mixed with *this could go horribly wrong*." He paused. "The speed itself is incredible. Moving so fast the world becomes frozen. Having time to think, to plan, to act. But the responsibility..."
"Is crushing," Susan finished quietly. "I understand that. When my aunt died, I became the last Bones. Head of the family at seventeen. Everyone looking to me for direction, for leadership, when I barely knew what I was doing."
"How did you handle it?" Harry asked, genuinely curious.
"Badly at first," Susan admitted. "I made mistakes. Tried to be my aunt when I should have been finding my own way. But eventually I realized—I could honor her legacy without becoming her. Could lead the family while still being myself."
"Is that what you're doing now? With the contracts?"
Susan met his eyes. "I'm trying to honor my obligations without losing myself in them. Same as you, I think. We're both trapped by circumstances we didn't choose, trying to find a path that doesn't destroy who we are."
"And if there is no path?" Harry asked. "If honoring the contracts means becoming someone we're not?"
"Then we deal with that when we come to it," Susan said firmly. "But I refuse to believe we don't have choices. Maybe they're not the choices we want, but they exist."
Harry found himself warming to her practicality. Susan didn't deal in illusions or false hope—she acknowledged reality while refusing to surrender to it.
"You're going to be okay," Susan said suddenly. "With all of this. The contracts, the powers, the impossible balance. You're going to figure it out."
"How do you know?"
"Because you already did once," she pointed out. "You walked toward death to save everyone. Survived things that should have killed you. This is just another impossible situation. And you specialize in those."
Despite everything, Harry laughed. "When you put it that way..."
"It's still terrifying," Susan finished. "But at least it's the kind of terrifying you've faced before."
They finished lunch talking about lighter things—Hogwarts memories, mutual friends, plans for the future that didn't involve contracts or obligations. Susan wanted to work in magical creature conservation, specifically helping species that had been affected by the war. Harry told her about his training with Barry, about the strange community of superheroes he was becoming part of.
As they prepared to leave, Susan reached across the table and squeezed his hand briefly.
"Thank you," she said. "For being genuine. For not making this harder than it has to be. Daphne was right—you're one of the good ones, Harry Potter."
"I'm just trying not to mess this up too badly," Harry admitted.
"We all are," Susan said. "But I think—I think we might actually pull this off. Not in the way any of us wanted, but maybe in a way we can live with."
"I hope you're right."
"I usually am," Susan said with a grin that reminded him of Hermione. "Ask anyone in Hufflepuff. We're annoyingly practical like that."
She left with a cheerful wave, and Harry sat alone for a few minutes processing.
Two dates down. Both had been... fine. Not romantic, not the sparks and butterflies of falling in love. But they'd been genuine, honest conversations with people who were trying as hard as he was to navigate an impossible situation.
Was that enough to build something on?
Harry didn't know. But he was starting to think it might be.
---
**Central City - STAR Labs - One Week Later**
"You're distracted," Barry observed as Harry face-planted into a wall he should have phased through.
Harry peeled himself off the concrete, his helmet retracting to reveal a frustrated expression. "I'm fine."
"You're lying." Barry crossed his arms. "You've been off all week. Missing cues, hesitating when you should be acting, and you just tried to phase through solid matter while thinking about something else. What's going on?"
Harry slumped against the wall. "Second date with Daphne is tonight. Third with Susan is tomorrow. And I just got a letter from Ginny's mum saying she's extended her stay in France indefinitely."
"Ah." Barry sat down beside him on the training track. "Girl troubles."
"Three girls' worth of troubles," Harry corrected. "Is that worse or better than normal troubles? I can't tell."
"Definitely worse," Barry said sympathetically. "Look, I'm not great at relationship advice—Iris and I took years to figure our stuff out—but I can tell you this: you can't be a hero if your personal life is destroying you from the inside."
"I'm managing."
"You ran face-first into a wall."
"Okay, I'm barely managing." Harry scrubbed his hands over his face. "The dates are fine. Better than fine, actually. Daphne's brilliant—we spent two hours last week just talking about magical theory and how it intersects with physics. And Susan's kind, perceptive, makes me laugh. They're both incredible people."
"But?" Barry prompted.
"But they're not Ginny," Harry said quietly. "And I keep waiting to feel something—some spark, some connection, *something* that justifies what I'm putting everyone through. But it's just... friendship. At best."
"Friendship is a good foundation," Barry offered.
"For a marriage I'm being forced into?"
"Fair point." Barry was quiet for a moment. "What if—and I'm just spitballing here—what if friendship is enough? Not in the romantic sense, but as a basis for partnership?"
"What do you mean?"
"Look at arranged marriages throughout history," Barry said. "Most of them weren't about love. They were about alliance, partnership, building something together. And a lot of those marriages actually worked—not because the people fell madly in love, but because they respected each other and chose to build a life together."
"Are you seriously suggesting I marry both of them without being in love with them?" Harry asked incredulously.
"I'm suggesting," Barry said carefully, "that maybe love isn't the only valid reason for marriage in your world. Maybe respect, compatibility, and shared goals are enough. Especially when the alternative is magical backlash that could kill people."
Harry wanted to argue. Wanted to insist that love was essential, that anything less was settling.
But part of him—the practical part that had survived a war—wondered if Barry had a point.
"I'll think about it," Harry said finally. "But right now, I need to focus on not running into walls."
"Good plan," Barry said, standing and offering Harry a hand up. "Come on. Let's work on your phasing. And this time, *focus*."
---
**Flourish and Blotts, Diagon Alley - That Evening**
Daphne had suggested meeting at the bookshop, which immediately told Harry this wouldn't be a typical date.
He found her in the Advanced Magic section, surrounded by stacks of books, taking notes on a piece of parchment that was rapidly filling with her precise handwriting.
"Potter—Harry. Perfect timing." She thrust a book at him. "Read this section on magical contracts and tell me if I'm interpreting it correctly."
"Hello to you too," Harry said dryly, but he took the book. The section dealt with dissolution clauses in century-old agreements, written in legal language so dense he could barely parse it.
"I think," Daphne said, pointing to a specific paragraph, "there might be a loophole. If all three parties—you, me, and Susan—can prove we made genuine effort but are fundamentally incompatible in ways the contracts didn't account for, we might be able to dissolve them with reduced penalties."
"What counts as 'fundamentally incompatible'?" Harry asked, scanning the text.
"That's what I'm trying to figure out." Daphne gestured to her notes. "The law mentions 'irreconcilable differences in magical core resonance,' which sounds fancy but basically means if our magic doesn't work well together, the contracts acknowledge that forcing a marriage would be counterproductive."
Harry felt a spark of hope. "So if we can prove our magic is incompatible—"
"We might have an out," Daphne finished. "Or at least a way to reduce the penalties to something non-fatal." She looked up at him, and for the first time since he'd known her, she looked genuinely excited. "I've been researching this for weeks. There are precedents—rare, but they exist. Cases where betrothal contracts were dissolved because the parties' magic actively rejected the bond."
"How do we test that?" Harry asked.
"Carefully," Daphne said. "We'd need a qualified magical theorist to measure our core resonances. See if they align or clash. And we'd need to do it for all three combinations—you and me, you and Susan, the three of us together."
"And if our magic is compatible?"
Daphne's excitement dimmed slightly. "Then we're back to the original plan. Six months of courtship, followed by either marriage or dissolution with full penalties."
They spent the next hour researching, pulling books on magical theory and contract law, cross-referencing centuries-old cases. Harry found himself genuinely engaged—not as someone on a date, but as a partner working toward a common goal.
"You're good at this," he commented as Daphne located yet another relevant text. "The research, the analysis. You're going to make an incredible magical lawyer."
"If I survive the contracts long enough to become one," Daphne said, but she was smiling. "Thank you, though. Most people just see the Slytherin ice queen. They don't notice that I actually *care* about this stuff."
"I'm noticing," Harry said honestly.
Daphne met his eyes, and something passed between them—not romance, but recognition. Respect. The acknowledgment that they were more than their house stereotypes or public personas.
"We should test this," Daphne decided. "The magical resonance theory. I'll contact Professor Flitwick—he's one of the foremost experts on magical compatibility. See if he'll agree to help."
"And if he finds we're compatible?"
"Then at least we'll know," Daphne said pragmatically. "At least we won't spend six months wondering if there was an easier way out."
They left the bookshop loaded down with reference materials, and Harry realized with surprise that he'd enjoyed himself. Not as a romantic evening, but as the kind of intellectual partnership he'd had with Hermione during their Hogwarts years.
"Same time next week?" Daphne asked as they reached the apparition point.
"Actually," Harry said, "why don't we include Susan? If we're researching contract loopholes, she should be part of it. This affects her too."
Daphne considered this. "You're right. And three heads are better than two." She pulled out her planner. "I'll send her an owl. We can meet at my family's study—it has the best magical law library outside the Ministry."
"Sounds like a plan."
Harry apparated back to the Burrow feeling something he hadn't expected: cautious optimism.
Maybe there was a way through this that didn't require anyone's heart to break. Maybe the solution was exactly what he'd been doing—treating this like a problem to solve rather than a romance to force.
Maybe friendship and partnership were enough.
---
**The Greengrass Estate - Library - The Following Week**
The Greengrass family library was intimidating in its grandeur.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with books, some so old they were kept under preservation charms. A massive oak table dominated the center of the room, already covered with the texts Daphne had assembled. Comfortable chairs positioned near a fireplace that crackled with enchanted flames.
Harry arrived with Susan, both of them taking in the space with wide eyes.
"Your family is *rich* rich," Susan observed.
"Old money," Daphne said, appearing from behind a shelf with more books. "Which means most of it's tied up in property and investments we can't touch. But yes, the library is impressive. My grandmother built it—she was obsessed with preserving magical knowledge."
They settled around the table, and for the next three hours, they worked.
Not as people on dates, but as a team with a common goal. Daphne's analytical mind found patterns in the legal texts. Susan's intuitive understanding of magical theory filled in gaps. And Harry—Harry remembered details from his years at Hogwarts, connections between different areas of magic that proved relevant.
"Here," Susan said suddenly, pointing to a passage in *Advanced Contract Theory*. "It mentions 'tripartite bonds'—contracts involving three parties. And there's a note about how they're more difficult to maintain because they require all three magical cores to resonate in harmony."
"Which means they're also more likely to fail naturally," Daphne continued, catching her thread. "If even one party is significantly incompatible, the whole structure becomes unstable."
"So if my magic clashes with either of yours," Harry said slowly, "it might invalidate both contracts simultaneously?"
"Possibly." Daphne was already making notes. "We need those resonance tests. I'll push Flitwick for an appointment this week."
They broke for lunch—sandwiches provided by house elves who seemed delighted to have young people in the library again. The conversation shifted from contracts to other topics. Susan told stories about her aunt, about growing up knowing she might one day lead the family. Daphne talked about her younger sister Astoria, about the pressure of being the heir everyone expected to be perfect.
Harry found himself sharing too—about the Dursleys, about growing up not knowing he was a wizard, about the weight of being the Boy Who Lived.
"I always wondered," Susan said quietly, "what it was like. Being famous for something you didn't remember doing."
"Lonely," Harry admitted. "Everyone thought they knew me because they knew the story. But nobody actually *knew* me. Even now, with all the Death Speed publicity—people see the armor and the lightning. They don't see the person underneath who's just trying not to screw everything up."
"We see you," Daphne said. Not romantic—just factual. "That's what these meetings have taught me, at least. You're not the Chosen One or Death Speed or Lord Potter-Black. You're just Harry, trying to do his best in an impossible situation."
"Same could be said of both of you," Harry pointed out.
They smiled—all three of them—and Harry felt something shift. Not love. Not romance. But something equally valuable: genuine friendship born from shared struggle.
By the time they wrapped up for the evening, they'd compiled a solid case for magical incompatibility testing and identified three different legal precedents that might apply to their situation.
"This is good work," Daphne said, reviewing their notes. "If even half of this holds up under examination, we might actually have options."
"And if it doesn't?" Susan asked.
"Then we keep looking," Harry said firmly. "There has to be a way through this that doesn't destroy anyone. We just have to find it."
---
**The Burrow - Kitchen - Late That Night**
Harry returned to find Hermione waiting up, a cup of tea in front of her and that expression she wore when she was about to deliver unwelcome truths.
"How was the research session?" she asked.
"Productive," Harry said, helping himself to tea. "We might have found a potential loophole. Something about magical resonance incompatibility."
"Harry." Hermione's tone made him pause. "You got another letter. From Ginny."
His heart seized. "What did it say?"
"She's not coming back for a while. She's—" Hermione's voice gentled, "—she's taking a position with Gringotts' French branch. Curse-breaking training. It's a good opportunity."
"It's her running away," Harry said flatly.
"It's her protecting herself," Hermione corrected. "And honestly? I think it's healthy. She needs space to heal, to figure out who she is without being 'Harry Potter's girlfriend.' This could be good for her."
"It feels like I'm losing her."
"You might be," Hermione said, and the honesty hurt worse than comfortable lies. "But Harry—you've been spending weeks with Daphne and Susan. Getting to know them. Actually *enjoying* their company, if your stories are anything to go by. Maybe... maybe it's okay if things with Ginny don't work out."
"Don't," Harry said sharply.
"Don't what? Don't tell you the truth? Don't point out that you're building genuine friendships with two incredible witches who are trapped in the same impossible situation?" Hermione leaned forward. "I love Ginny. She's my friend, practically my sister. But I also see what's happening here. You and Daphne and Susan—you're becoming a team. Partners in this mess. And that's not nothing, Harry."
"It's not love," Harry insisted.
"No," Hermione agreed. "But in the magical world, in pureblood society—love isn't always the foundation of marriage. Respect is. Partnership is. Shared goals and compatible magic and the choice to build a life together even when circumstances force your hand."
"You sound like Barry," Harry muttered.
"Then Barry's smart." Hermione sipped her tea. "I'm not saying you have to marry them. I'm saying you should be open to the possibility that there are different kinds of happy endings. That maybe—just maybe—the life you're building with Daphne and Susan could be fulfilling even if it's not what you originally wanted."
Harry wanted to argue. Wanted to insist that settling was wrong, that love was essential, that he couldn't imagine a future without Ginny in it.
But the words wouldn't come.
Because part of him—a growing part—wondered if Hermione was right. If partnership and respect and shared struggle could be enough. If the foundation he was building with Daphne and Susan was more solid than he'd realized.
"I need to sleep," Harry said, standing abruptly. "Big day tomorrow. More training with Barry."
"Harry—"
"I'll think about it," he promised. "What you said. I'll think about it."
He retreated to Ron's room—his room—and lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling while the armor pulsed against his skin with sympathetic awareness.
The Speed Force whispered about infinite possibilities, about quantum states where multiple outcomes existed simultaneously.
Death's presence reminded him that endings came in many forms—not all of them tragic.
And somewhere in France, Ginny Weasley was starting a new life that didn't include him.
Maybe that was okay.
Maybe—just maybe—everyone could find different kinds of happiness even when the story didn't go as planned.
Harry fell asleep still uncertain, still conflicted, but with something that felt dangerously like acceptance beginning to take root.
The next six months would determine everything.
He just hoped he had the strength to face whatever they brought.
---
**The Forest of Dean - Late November Night**
The trees were skeletal against the winter sky, their bare branches reaching upward like grasping fingers. A cold wind whistled through the forest, carrying the promise of snow.
Winky appeared with the soft *pop* of house-elf apparition, her large eyes reflecting the moonlight as she clutched a rough map drawn on parchment. The small elf wore a makeshift dress fashioned from what looked like pillowcases—a far cry from the smart tea-towel uniform she'd once worn in the Crouch household.
She'd been dreaming. For weeks now, the dreams had come—visions of this place, of something buried and waiting. A voice calling to her in the darkness, familiar somehow. A voice that spoke of loyalty and duty and the debts that bound even house-elves to their true masters.
*Master Barty,* the voice had whispered in her dreams. *Master Barty needs you.*
Winky had tried to resist. Master Barty was dead—kissed by Dementors, his soul consumed. She'd drunk herself into stupors in the Hogwarts kitchens trying to forget him, trying to purge the love and loyalty that had defined her existence.
But the dreams persisted. And finally, Winky had listened.
She consulted the map again—rough directions that had formed in her mind during the visions. Twenty paces north from the lightning-struck oak. Fifteen paces east. Then dig beneath the clump of rowan trees where three roots intertwined.
Winky found the spot and began to dig.
Her small hands moved earth with surprising efficiency, magic aiding her work. Deeper, deeper, following instinct and the pull of something *calling* to her through soil and stone.
Her fingers struck something hard.
Winky brushed away dirt to reveal a small wrapped bundle—fabric rotted with time and moisture. Inside, preserved by magic both deliberate and accidental, was a sphere of crystal and metal.
Mad-Eye Moody's magical eye.
Electric blue even in death, the pupil dilating and contracting independently as it focused on Winky's face. She'd seen this eye before, remembered it from the year Master Barty had worn Moody's face and taught Defense Against the Dark Arts.
The year before everything had gone wrong.
"Master Barty's eye," Winky whispered, cradling it reverently. Then she froze. "No. Not *his* eye. But he *wore* it. Wore Moody's face and Moody's eye and—"
The eye *pulsed*.
Not with light—with something darker. Something that resonated with the part of Winky that had been bound to Barty Crouch Junior through decades of service and loyalty. The connection she'd thought severed by his death suddenly blazed to life, and Winky *understood*.
This wasn't just Moody's eye.
It was a Horcrux.
Barty Crouch Junior's Horcrux, created in desperation as he'd worn the disguise, as he'd murdered and taught and played the role of Mad-Eye Moody. A fragment of his soul, anchored to the object he'd stolen, waiting dormant for years while Harry Potter had buried it here unknowing.
"Master Barty," Winky breathed, tears streaming down her weathered face. "Master Barty is alive. Part of him is *alive*."
The eye showed her visions then—not with light but directly into her mind. Images of what it had witnessed, what it had absorbed while lying buried:
The Forbidden Forest. A clearing with ancient stones. And beneath those stones, bones—the skeletal remains of someone the eye recognized through Barty's fragmented memories.
*Father,* the Horcrux-fragment whispered into Winky's consciousness. *Bone of the father, unknowingly given. Already there.*
More images: Winky herself, loyal and broken and desperate for purpose.
*Flesh of the servant, willingly sacrificed. You can provide that.*
And finally: a red-haired girl with fierce eyes. Ginny Weasley, her image burned into the Horcrux's awareness from old memories when Barty had worn this eye and watched the students, when Harry Potter's relationship with her had been common knowledge.
*Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken. She will do. The Muggle-lover's beloved. Potter's heart given form.*
Winky shuddered as the Horcrux's plan unfolded in her mind. The dark ritual Barty had learned from his master, modified and perfected during his years of hiding. The way to restore a body from fragments, to pull a soul from its anchor and give it flesh again.
"No," Winky whispered. "Master Barty is dead. The Dementors—"
*The Dementors consumed the BODY,* the Horcrux corrected, its mental voice an echo of the young man Winky had served. *But a soul cannot be consumed if it is anchored elsewhere. I survived. I ENDURED. And you—loyal Winky—you can bring me back.*
"Winky cannot," the elf said, even as her hands tightened on the eye. "Winky is just a house-elf. Winky does not know dark magic."
*You know loyalty. You know service. That's all the ritual requires—a willing servant, performing actions I will guide.* The Horcrux pulsed again, and Winky felt compulsion magic seeping into her mind. Not imperious—Barty's fragment was too weak for that. But *persuasion*. Reminders of old bonds and older debts. *I gave you purpose, Winky. I gave you orders to follow when Father cast you aside. Now I'm giving you the greatest purpose of all—restoration. Resurrection. The chance to undo what the Dementors did.*
Winky wavered. She'd been so lost since the war ended. The Hogwarts kitchens had employed her out of pity, but there was no *master* there. No one to serve with the absolute devotion that had defined her existence.
Master Barty had been cruel sometimes. Had used her in his schemes. But he'd also been *hers* to serve, hers to protect, hers to love in the way house-elves loved their masters.
"What must Winky do?" she asked, and felt the Horcrux's triumph echo through their connection.
*First, take me to the Forbidden Forest. To the place I showed you—where Father's bones rest beneath ancient stones. Then we'll wait for the right moment. When the Weasley girl is vulnerable. When we can take her blood without the Boy Who Lived interfering.*
"Harry Potter is very powerful now," Winky said nervously. "He is Death Speed. Winky has seen him on the telly-vision in the kitchens. He moves faster than eyes can see."
*Then we'll be careful. Patient.* The Horcrux's voice carried dark amusement. *Besides—I've been dormant for years, buried while the world moved on. Tell me, loyal Winky—does Harry Potter still love the Weasley girl? Are they still together?*
"No," Winky admitted. "Master Harry has betrothal contracts. He must court other witches. Miss Ginny went to France, brokenhearted. All the elves know—it is the gossip of the kitchens."
*Perfect.* The Horcrux practically purred with satisfaction. *A girl separated from her protector. A girl wounded and vulnerable. She'll be easy prey. And when Potter discovers what I've done to his precious Ginny—when he realizes I've risen again—*
The Horcrux laughed, and Winky shivered at the sound.
She apparated away, cradling Mad-Eye's eye against her chest, and tried to ignore the part of her that whispered this was wrong.
Master Barty needed her.
That was all that mattered.
Behind her, the disturbed earth slowly filled itself in, erasing all evidence that something dark and terrible had been unearthed.
---
**The Forbidden Forest - Barty Crouch Senior's Grave - The Same Night**
The clearing was exactly as the Horcrux remembered—ancient standing stones arranged in a circle, moss-covered and weathered by centuries. Beneath them, hidden by magic and time, lay bones that had been transfigured and vanished but never truly destroyed.
Barty Crouch Senior's remains, buried here by his son years ago.
Winky set down the eye carefully, and it rolled to position itself facing the largest stone. The blue iris dilated, seeing through darkness with Mad-Eye's famous all-seeing magic.
*There,* the Horcrux directed. *Dig beneath the flat stone. Three feet down.*
Winky hesitated. "Winky is violating a grave. This is dark magic. Master Barty wouldn't—"
*Master Barty did EVERYTHING necessary to serve the Dark Lord,* the Horcrux snapped, and Winky flinched at the venom in its mental voice. *Do you think I hesitated when I murdered my father? When I transfigured his body and hid it in this forest? This is nothing compared to what I've already done.*
Shaking, Winky began to dig.
The soil gave way easily—too easily, as if it had been waiting for this moment. Her small hands uncovered fabric first, then harder shapes beneath. Bones, preserved by the same magic that had hidden them, slowly revealed themselves in the moonlight.
A skull. Ribs. The scattered pieces of what had once been Barty Crouch Senior, Undersecretary to the Minister, father to a Death Eater, victim of his own son's ambition.
*Perfect,* the Horcrux whispered. *Bone of the father, unknowingly given. The first component is secured.*
"What now?" Winky asked, trying not to look at the skull's empty eye sockets.
*Now we wait. We watch. We learn the Weasley girl's patterns.* The eye's pupil contracted, focusing beyond the clearing toward Hogwarts in the distance. *She'll return eventually. For Christmas, perhaps. Or for some other sentimental reason. And when she does—when she's alone and vulnerable—we'll strike.*
"Winky does not want to hurt Miss Ginny," the elf said quietly. "She is kind. She defended house-elves during the war."
*You won't hurt her permanently,* the Horcrux assured with false gentleness. *Just a small cut. Just enough blood for the ritual. She'll barely feel it, and by the time she realizes what's happened, I'll be restored. Master Barty will be *alive* again, Winky. Truly alive. Isn't that worth a little girl's blood?*
Winky wanted to say no. Wanted to refuse, to throw the cursed eye into the forest's depths and run.
But the compulsion was stronger now. The old bonds of service, twisted by dark magic into something toxic. The *need* to serve, to obey, to fulfill her master's will even when that will had fragmented into something monstrous.
"Yes, Master Barty," Winky whispered. "Winky will help."
The eye pulsed with satisfaction, and somewhere in its crystal-and-metal depths, a fragment of Barty Crouch Junior's soul smiled.
He'd been patient for so long. Dormant while Harry Potter buried him unknowingly in this forest. Silent while the war raged and ended. Waiting, *waiting* for someone loyal enough and broken enough to find him.
Now the pieces were falling into place.
Bone of the father: secured.
Flesh of the servant: promised.
Blood of the enemy: soon to be obtained.
And then—resurrection. A new body. A new chance to serve the Dark Lord's vision, to prove himself worthy, to show the world that Barty Crouch Junior had not been defeated by Dementors or death or destiny.
In the clearing, surrounded by ancient stones and his father's bones, the Horcrux waited.
And in France, completely unaware of the danger gathering like storm clouds, Ginny Weasley packed her bags for a Christmas visit home.
---
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