The Knight Bus barreled recklessly down the road, swerving wildly, sometimes even jumping up onto sidewalks. Harold watched with disbelief as the driver dodged an old man in a wheelchair by making the bus leap right over his head.

Street lamps, mailboxes, and trash bins all seemed enchanted to bend away from the bus as it passed, snapping back into place after it rumbled through.

Occasionally, the bus would stop, and each time it did, Stan Shunpike would escort another wizard or witch on or off.

After what felt like hours—maybe just one, maybe more—Harold found himself alone on his level of the bus.

He was absurdly jealous of those who got off. The beds may have been charmed not to toss him around, but the rocking motion and constant ear-splitting BANGs were far from relaxing.

But this was his best option. The Knight Bus left no magical trace—unlike Apparition or Portkeys, which the Ministry could easily track. This way, they wouldn't know where he'd gone.

"All right, where exactly are you headed?" Stan finally asked again.

"Wiltshire," Harold replied.

"I know that," Stan said, giving him an odd look. "But we need a specific location—street, house number?"

"I'm traveling," Harold answered casually. "Somewhere south of Wiltshire—there's a mountain shaped like a fork. Over the top of it. Heard the view's nice."

Stan stared at him like he was mad, but still knocked on the driver's window. "Fork-shaped mountain, go over it."

The driver nodded, took another bite of his sandwich, then stomped on the gas.

Harold felt the bed lurch back a full foot as the bus shot forward.

Outside the window, the scenery shifted every second—buildings and bushes shoving themselves aside to clear a path for the bus.

A few minutes later, the driver slammed on the brakes again. They'd arrived.

Harold staggered out the door.

It was his first time in Wiltshire. The place was desolate—no people in sight, just barren land and a silence that made London feel like another planet.

"There's your mountain," Stan said, pointing behind him. "Fork-shaped. Just like you asked. Cheers, mate!"

With a thunderous BANG, the Knight Bus vanished.

Harold turned. Sure enough, behind him stood a strange mountain—like someone had hacked it with two massive sword strokes, splitting a single peak into three jagged prongs. A perfect fork.

Credit where it's due: the Knight Bus driver really could find anywhere.

Harold recalled what the ghost had told him:

"Head south to a fork-shaped mountain, go over it, then cross a river..."

He'd already passed the mountain. Just needed to continue onward.

Flying would be much faster than walking—especially if the river was far off.

Harold reached into his Transfigured Lizard-hide bag and pulled out an old broomstick.

The Comet Five-Star—a model from over thirty years ago. He'd borrowed it from the Quality Quidditch Supplies shop just before leaving.

It wouldn't win any matches, but it was reliable for travel.

He hopped on and flew south.

Now that he was actually here, he finally understood why Wiltshire had the highest number of pure-blood families in the country. It was isolated—no Muggles, no noise, no interruptions. Just endless wilderness.

A perfect place to build manors, castles, or even hide… darker things.

He flew for over an hour and hadn't seen a single soul.

Half an hour later, he finally heard the sound of rushing water.

A wide, fast river blocked his path. No bridge on either side. Didn't matter—he had a broom.

Lifting up slightly, Harold soared across.

On the other side, the landscape was even more barren. Not even shrubs now—just long, whispering grasses.

But ahead… he saw it.

A forgotten village, abandoned and crumbling.

The houses had long since collapsed into rubble. What remained were jagged outlines of buildings, broken chimneys, and shattered stone.

The wind howled around him. As Harold stepped toward the village's entrance, the sound grew louder—like it was whispering directly into his ears.

Though it was nearly August, the air suddenly turned cold. Harold paused, instinctively uneasy.

He wasn't afraid of ghosts—he'd been to a Deathday party filled with hundreds. But this place felt worse. Colder. The whispers were no longer just wind, but voices—muttering, chattering, inhuman murmurs that crawled down his spine.

He suddenly thought:

Why am I even here? This might all be a mistake. The Baron might not even be able to resist the basilisk's curse.

Maybe I should go back.

Yeah… I should go back.

Then something clicked.

Harold's eyes narrowed. He shook his head and took several steps backward.

Only after retreating fifty feet did the strange urge to leave finally fade.

His expression darkened.

He'd been influenced. Manipulated. And hadn't even noticed.

It wasn't dangerous magic—but it was strong. Something like a Muggle-Repelling Charm, designed to keep people away.

But who'd cast it? The Ministry? Or… the ghost?

Didn't matter. He wasn't turning back.

He'd taken the Knight Bus and flown for hours to find this place. He wasn't leaving without trying.

Even if his plan failed, at least he'd know.

And after all, he'd gone to Nearly Headless Nick's Deathday Party last year just to get this ghost's location. This was all part of the plan.

He'd been saving a trump card just for this moment.

Harold drew Silvermane, his wand containing the soul of a unicorn, and slashed it forward.

A brilliant blue unicorn leapt from the wand's tip, glowing even in daylight.

"Go get him."

The unicorn didn't hesitate. The moment it appeared, it sensed the presence of something vile—something hiding within the village ruins.

In a flash of blue light, the unicorn charged.

A few seconds later, a shriek echoed from within.

It wasn't just any scream—it was pain, rage, confusion.

Dark clouds gathered overhead, casting the ruins into shadow. The scream turned into a wail.

Harold yawned and turned back to the village entrance, wandering over to wait.

The closer he got, the more that eerie compulsion returned—turn back, leave now—but he ignored it. Just to test it, he stepped forward and backward until he found the exact range of the enchantment.

Near the gate, something caught his eye—scraps of parchment wedged into a wall.

Curious, he went to examine them.

Time had nearly destroyed the parchment, but faint traces of ink remained. He could barely make out scattered words:

[Ghost… Baron… terrorizing Muggles… deemed… route… sealed… danger…]

Looked like an old Ministry warning, probably a notice about the Bloody Baron and a restricted area.

At the bottom were two names.

"Hec…tor"—probably Hector, the Minister of Magic seventy years ago. The dates matched.

The other was incomplete. Just the start of a name: Liu…?

Harold blinked.

Liu? Like Cho Chang from Ravenclaw?

Before he could dwell on it, the unicorn returned.

The wind had stopped. The shrieking had vanished.

But something else had arrived.

Floating from the unicorn's horn was a gray mass—amorphous, like frozen fog.

Harold's breathing hitched the moment he saw it.

That's it.

It was just like the fragment of Voldemort's soul he'd seen in first year—only lighter in color.

Not as dark. Not as deadly. But definitely the same type of thing.

Of course, it made sense.

Voldemort was the Dark Lord—his name alone inspired fear. The Bloody Baron? Just a footnote in ghost stories.

But Harold didn't care.

If the unicorn could pierce it, he could use it.

This ghost fragment could become the perfect buffer—forging the final connection between serpentwood and basilisk eye.

The failed wand would finally be complete.

…

(End of Chapter)