Hermione Disapparated with a sharp crack, the sound swallowed by the thick mist rolling across the moorland. She reappeared moments later, further north, on the abandoned railway line, her boots crunching on loose gravel and brittle sleepers. The air was colder here, heavy with the scent of damp earth and disused metal.
She moved with an urgency born of both duty and a searing, personal betrayal. Every fading shimmer of Lucien's uncontrolled magic that she tracked was a step closer to understanding the enormity of Cho's lie and the danger her perceived godson was in. The Ministry would be blind to this path, their conventional tracking spells useless against the sheer elemental force Lucien had unleashed.
The railway line wound through desolate, uninhabited stretches of the Scottish countryside, cutting through thickets of gorse and over ancient, moss-covered stone bridges. It was an ingenious escape route, precisely because it was not magical. Lysander Grindelwald's strategic mind was evident in every overlooked detail.
Hermione reached the half-collapsed maintenance shed beneath a massive stone arch of the viaduct, the place where she knew the fugitives had made their final departure. The air inside was still and heavy, smelling of old oil and rust. She cast her advanced Revealing Charm once more.
The shimmering afterimages were clearer this time, lingering longer in the charged air. She saw the phantom figures of Ira Riddle, frail but resolute, Lysander Grindelwald, elegant and manipulative, and the tall boy, Lucien, whose face was etched with raw power and terror. The ghost of his magical signature still pulsed, a violent emerald green, where he had stood.
She knelt, examining the faint, rapidly dissipating Portal Rune on the concrete floor. Her fingers traced its complex geometry. It was an ancient design, one she'd only seen illustrated in obscure, pre-Statute grimoires. It was a testament to Lysander's profound knowledge of forgotten magic—a magic Dumbledore himself would have recognized from his youth.
The rune's destination coordinates were cleverly masked, shrouded in layers of elemental redirection charms. But Hermione, with a furious concentration, began to peel back the layers. She detected a faint geographical anchor, a recurring pattern of heavy, natural water magic and ancient, high-density metal.
"A port," she murmured, rising to her feet. "Or an industrial hub near the sea. Somewhere the Ministry would never think to look for ancient magic."
The cold, calculated precision of Lysander Grindelwald chilled her to the bone. He wasn't just escaping; he was establishing a base, preparing for something far grander than mere fugitive life. He was playing chess, and the Ministry was still fumbling with the pawns.
Hermione's thoughts drifted back to Cho. Had she been forced into this? Was she a pawn, too? Or was this a calculated deception from the start? The thought of her friend knowingly lying to Harry, to all of them, for fifteen years, was a fresh wound.
She looked at the ghost of Lucien's emerald magic in the air. He was a Potter. Harry's son. He was also a weapon, now in the hands of a descendant of the darkest wizard of the last century, allied with the daughter of Voldemort. The prophecy.
Hermione re-cast her Elemental Tracking Charm, but this time, she stretched its range, pushing her magical reserves to their limit. The silver-blue trail now pulsed with a new, colder energy, a more focused and deliberate path, hinting at Lysander's influence. It led not directly west to the most obvious coastal areas, but southwest, hugging the convoluted coastline, following the ancient ley lines that ran beneath the sea.
He's using the natural magic of the land to hide their passage, Hermione realized. He's funneling them to a place that is magic, but appears Muggle.
She saw the endpoint now: a cluster of landmasses, shrouded in perpetual mist, dominated by a single, dark structure—a place where the sea met the remnants of an old, forgotten power.
The Black Lighthouse.
Hermione Disapparated again, pushing herself further, faster than any Auror would dare. She was a single spearhead, driven by a terrible truth and an even more terrible uncertainty. She had to reach them. She had to understand. She had to save Harry's son, even if it meant confronting the darkest shadows of their past.
The stakes were higher than she had ever imagined. She was not just chasing a fugitive; she was chasing the unfolding of a destiny Dumbledore had foretold, a destiny that now included a Potter heir, a Riddle heiress, and a Grindelwald.