They took you at dusk.

You'd been scouting a safe route for the next mission, a simple perimeter check — routine, boring, forgettable. Until it wasn’t. Until they got the drop on you. You fought. You hexed three of them. But in the end, it was four against one.

You vanished without a trace.

And Harry— Harry broke.

He wasn’t at the safehouse when they told him. He was out with Ron and Hermione, negotiating supplies from an underground network of rebels. When he got the Patronus, he dropped everything and ran back, eyes wild, breath jagged, like his body already knew what his mind refused to process.

“No ransom,” Tonks said quietly. “They didn’t leave a mark. She’s just... gone.”

The silence that followed wasn’t quiet. It was deadly.

Harry turned to the map. “Where was she last seen?”

“Harry—”

“Where,” he growled, every syllable lined with iron and rage.

Someone gave the coordinates. He didn’t wait. Didn’t take backup. Didn’t breathe.

He Apparated straight into hell.

It took hours. Maybe days. Time didn’t exist anymore. Only fury. Only fire.

By the time he reached the basement of the crumbling manor, three Death Eaters lay unconscious — or worse — behind him. The fourth was coughing blood on the stairs. Harry didn’t care.

He found you chained to a wall, blood dried under your nose, one eye swollen, your magic so drained it barely flickered behind your eyes.

But you looked up.

And saw him.

You thought you were hallucinating.

Until he dropped to his knees.

“Hi,” he whispered, his voice breaking as he cupped your cheek. “I’m here.”