That night, Harry Apparated to Tromsø's outskirts. Draco's cabin bore Ministry seals, protective spells glowing faintly. Harry withdrew the watch—the nebula formed an inverted "S."

Following its guidance, his wand parted the wards silently. Inside was ransacked—thoroughly searched. But Harry went straight to the bedroom, using Draco's key to open a hidden floor compartment.

Within the waterproof case were files, memory vials, and one item that stole Harry's breath—a Daily Prophet clipping of his Order of Merlin award. The photo showed him smiling, the clipping's edge bearing a faint lipstick mark. Most astonishingly, an Permanent Sticking Charm prevented damage.

"Draco..." Harry touched the lip mark, throat tight. All these years, Draco had...

Forcing focus, he examined the other items. Files detailed every Dark object Draco neutralized, plus suspected smuggling rings—all traceable. Memory vials were labeled by date; one tag made Harry's blood freeze: "Nott meets Norwegian Deputy Minister, 2023.10.15."

But the most damning find was a small ledger documenting Ministry corruption. One page listed Nott's meetings with known Death Eater sympathizers. The final entry read:

"Confirmed: Nott controls remaining Death Eaters, using Ministry resources to eliminate old enemies. Next targets: Me. Then... Potter."

Harry's blood turned to ice. Draco had known Nott would kill him, known Harry was in danger. Yet he stayed, continued working until...

Until choosing to save Harry over himself.

White-hot rage filled Harry. Securing all evidence, he took one last look at the clipping. This time, he let himself imagine an alternate reality—if he'd known Draco's feelings sooner, if they'd had a chance after the war...

But fantasies only deepened the pain. Harry took everything and left. Now, he had one goal: make Theodore Nott pay for Draco's death.

Not as an Auror. Not for justice. Just as a man avenging the love he'd never gotten to know.

Under the shimmering Northern Lights, Harry Disapparated, the watch in his pocket pulsing warmly—like a heart still beating.

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