Part 2 Chapter 6
Lucius Malfoy collapsed into his chair after another mostly useless summit with his political allies in the Wizengamot. Ever since the Daily Prophet had printed the story on the death of Quirinus Quirrel, a scramble had begun on all sides of the government to leverage the shifting public opinion into political capital, and so far, due to the great pains of Albus Dumbledore, it seemed to be working itself toward neutrality.
People could say what they wanted about Dumbledore, but the man was a shrewd political strategist, and one that was almost fatalistically devoted to the status quo. A reactionary in every sense of the word, he played the Wizengamot like a fiddle, tossing factions against each other and inspiring partisanship at every turn, if only to ruin the chances of any singular group passing a relevant Bill into an Act of the Wizengamot.
As the de facto leader of the Light faction, he had alienated powerful names like Greengrass and Breathnach, and pandered to relatively meaningless families. The Weasley family was an example of a family that existed in government at the pleasure of Albus Dumbledore; although they had long been represented in the Wizengamot, recently their patriarchs had been squandering the family's wealth in embarrassing diversions. It had ruined their reputation and their vaults.
Arthur Weasley was the latest in a long line of blithering idiots, to say it simply.
The other factions in the Wizengamot were a) the Traditionalists, who sought to protect magical culture and practices in Britain against the disastrous reforms proposed by the Light faction and the cultural drift resulting from muggleborn witches and wizards, b) the Naturalists, who proposed a complete overhaul of Magical law to reclassify branches of magic in an attempt to preserve what they called 'the natural order,' and c) the Progressives, who sought to reform Magical Britain into muggle Britain.
The only faction which didn't have a distinct platform was the Light faction, and that was because they were a useless bunch of nattering blowhards who were surviving on a toxic mixture of irrational fear and ancient history. It was no surprise that they were led by a wrinkly old fossil better suited to the nineteenth century graveyard that he had been excavated from than the seat of Chief Warlock.
The Traditionalists were the second most powerful group in the Wizengamot, but they were incapable of presenting any kind of organized opposition to the tomfoolery proposed by the Progressives and the Lights because they lacked a unifying force. Nobody was willing to claim the power vacuum left behind by the utter humiliation of the Black family throughout the course of the last war. It was a hard sell, admittedly, considering the hostility of the current Wizengamot towards Traditionalist sentiments, and Lucius was certainly not going to take the position himself.
He preferred a quieter sort of power than grandstanding in the Wizengamot and attending social events with a silver crown on his head and a target on his back.
Lucius tossed a stack of parchment onto his desk in disgust, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to quell the headache that was forming at the backs of his eyes.
Sometimes, he cursed the name Lord Voldemort. If the megalomaniac hadn't seen fit to personally ruin the Blacks and unintentionally destroy at least twelve other Pureblood families, then perhaps the current situation wouldn't be as dire.
Thinking the name drew his eyes to that solitary bookshelf in his office, which had stood untouched for months, gathering dust. The house elves refused to clean it, which was sensible of them, considering what it contained. Most of the titles held therein were innocuous remnants of Lucius' younger days, when his father had bought him a library of history books and treatises to teach him the knowledge and skills required of a Malfoy Head of House. But there was one book, a brown hardcover with an unmarked spine, that was so much more.
Malfoy stood before his bookcase with his hand against that book, wondering when he had gotten out of his chair, and the next thing he knew he was opening the legacy of Lord Voldemort and laying it gently upon his desk.
"Did you miss me, Lucius?" came the voice that Malfoy had sincerely hoped never to hear again. Closing his eyes, he slowed his racing heart and turned in his chair to face the Dark Lord.
A coiled black mass hung suspended in the center of Lucius' office, with a horrible face peering from the depths of shadow. If it were possible, Lucius' face grew paler, and his breath stilled upon his lips. "My…my lord Voldemort?"
"It is I," the terrible thing agreed, its voice low and sibilant. "You have done well to safeguard my diary, Lucius. I hope that you have not suffered unduly in my absence?"
"No, I…I've carried on," Malfoy managed to whisper. The spirit chuckled darkly.
"Yes, I saw how you denied me before the Wizengamot, Lucius," Voldemort hissed. Malfoy closed his eyes, silently making peace with the events of his life. "Oh, do not tremble so. It was good. I am glad that at least one of my closest followers was cunning enough to escape Azkaban. You have created an impressive sphere of influence while I have been abroad."
Having nothing to say, Lucius nodded his head slowly, managing to keep his face passive through years of diligent practice in the art of misdirection.
"We have work to do," Voldemort continued. "I expect that you will assist me now, as you did when we were younger?"
An insistent burn made itself known on Lucius' left forearm, and he swallowed. As if he had a choice. "Of course, my Lord."
"Good," Voldemort hissed. "Very good. Our activities now will be much more suited to your tastes, Lucius. I know you were never as fond of our revelry as the others, much preferring the false comfort provided by your much limited ideals of honor. Well, it should please your craven spirit, I imagine, to know that this will be a quieter campaign than my last."
"My lord, I…"
"Do not lie to me," Voldemort cut him off. The squirming shadow pulsed powerfully, flashing red. "It is better for me now that your mind is sharper than your sword. Our game must be a subtle one, a thing of whispers and shadow. The new era shall not be heralded by a war, but by the dying whimper of the only person standing between us and greatness. And it begins…with this."
The shade swooped low, and the open diary slammed shut. A cold gust of air disturbed the parchment on Lucius desk, and he laid his shaking hand upon the unblemished cover of the small, unassuming book. A moment passed as Voldemort's orders buried themselves into his mind, incontrovertible and compelling. When his heart finally slowed to a reasonable pace, Lucius swept the book into his hand and departed from his office.
Draco was startled by a knock on his bedroom door, and he rushed to answer it after stopping to throw a robe over his shoulders. He wrenched it open, a biting reprimand on the tip of his tongue, aimed at the poor elf who had been foolish enough to disturb him, but it died with a whimper when he saw his father there, dressed in expensive robes and holding his silver cane in his hand. Dobby gave him a wide-eyed look from behind Lucius' legs and popped away with little more than a soft pop.
A smile, saccharine and perfectly false, spread across the older man's face. "Draco, may I come in?"
"Of course," Draco stepped aside, pulling his robe around himself and tying it swiftly as his father stepped into his room. The man glanced at Draco's bed, which was a mess of tangled sheets, and curled his nose.
"Are you looking forward to your second year at Hogwarts?" Lucius asked as he pointedly diverted his eyes to wander aimlessly over the books on his son's shelves. Draco shrugged.
"I suppose," he replied. "It is all rather elementary."
"Of course it is. What did you expect from a ministry approved curriculum?" Lucius agreed, turning his sharp gray eyes to his son. "You are not there to learn magic, my son. Hogwarts is the place to build lasting alliances; it is the beginnings of the next generation's politics. Your peers will grow up and shape the Wizarding world, for good or for ill. Your task, Draco, is to leverage their ambitions to your benefit."
Draco nodded. He had heard this a thousand times. "I know."
They sat down at a small coffee table beside the bookshelf, and Lucius spent a moment inspecting his nails. Eventually, the silence was broken as he asked, "What do you think of Harry Potter?"
Draco hesitated just briefly. "I don't really know. He holds the respect of the entire school, and yet he does nothing with it. He has demonstrated a prodigious affinity for violence, but he never threatens anyone. He spends all of his time avoiding people and reading books."
"Have you spoken with him?" Lucius asked.
"I tried to establish a rivalry early in the year," Draco replied tentatively. "I hoped that I could make a reputation for myself that way, since he is such a visible public figure, young as he might be. We argued once, but he never engaged beyond that."
"That was when he declared himself the Heir of Slytherin?" Lucius asked softly, a half-smile on his face. "Quite a presumptuous claim."
"Yeah," Draco agreed. "I'm almost glad our rivalry didn't pan out. In the course of a year he took down Nott, injured Pellmore while fighting five wizards at once, got Flint expelled for the same incident, and killed Professor Quirrel in single combat."
"A very violent record," Lucius observed, sounding almost…pleased.
"What's this about, father?"
"I believe that Harry Potter could become a very dangerous force in the Wizengamot. Albus Dumbledore intends to use him and his reputation to destroy the Traditionalist faction," Lucius explained. Of course, Dumbledore intended nothing of the sort, being a reactionary, but Draco wouldn't know that and the fear would serve to motivate him. "I thought that I would see what you think about him. It pays to know your enemies, as you well know."
"Oh," Draco said, nodding his head and biting his lip. "He doesn't seem to spend all that much time with Dumbledore."
"He doesn't have to," Lucius explained. "His guardians were appointed by Dumbledore. And so long as people go on believing in the Boy-Who-Lived, he can be used against us."
Draco had a feeling that he knew where this was going. "And?"
"I have a plan intended to discredit him," Lucius declared. He drew a thin hardcover book from his robe and laid it on the table.
"I don't understand," Draco muttered.
"You mustn't," Lucius replied. He leaned forward in his chair. "It would be dangerous for you to know the details. All you have to do is take this book with you to Hogwarts and leave it somewhere that students might stumble over it. No one can know that you ever touched it. Not even your mother."
Draco blinked and glanced at the innocuous volume, wondering what it might contain that had scared his father. Lucius Malfoy was afraid of nothing, and here he was, with a feverish tint in his eyes as he spoke of a book. "Okay," he agreed quietly. "I'll do it."
"Good," Lucius replied. He reached up and removed the silver pendant that hung from his neck, holding it out by the chain. "And you will wear this at all times throughout the year."
It was an old family heirloom, a remnant of their Norman ancestry. Silver wrought in the form of a raven, it was meticulously engraved with thousands of miniscule runes, and Draco had never, ever seen his father without it.
"Are you sure?" Draco asked, holding it close to his chest with both hands.
Lucius gave him a thin smile. "My occlumency is not so terrible that I cannot survive a single year without that pendant. Wear it, and no one will be able to read your thoughts. Not even your godfather could pierce the protection provided by that amulet."
"So I can't tell him about this either?"
"Never," Lucius replied sharply. "Not a soul. This will be our secret, Draco. Do not send me any owls until you've completed your task. If I receive a letter from you, I will know that you succeeded. I don't think I have to tell you, but don't write anything about this matter down on anything. Especially letters carried by Hogwarts owls."
Draco nodded seriously and slipped the pendant over his neck. "I won't fail."
Lucius stood, tapping the ground with his cane. As he reached the door he hesitated. "Never open that book, Draco," he insisted quietly. "Swear to me that you won't."
Draco did, and his father left him alone with newly troubled thoughts.
It was hard to find the time to study the Dark Arts between all the rest of the things that Harry wanted to learn. When Death had originally commanded him to learn all that he could about magic he hadn't really grasped the scope of the task that had been set before him, but now that he had spent a year barreling through the Hogwarts library, he realized that he had a lifetime's worth of reading left to do, and even then he might never grasp all the intricacies of magic.
Over the summer he focused mainly on regenerative magic and runes, but he kept on practicing his combative spells as often as he could manage it. Whenever he slept, Death continued to hone his skills with the spear and shield, while providing insight into the more difficult aspects of the spells that he was learning. There wasn't as much theory behind the magic he learned, but it all required practice, and that was what took most of his time.
That and working on Nymphadora's staff.
The Dark Arts were a departure from the norm, however, in that Harry only ever read about theory, and never dared to cast the spells. What he read was enough to give him nightmares, and he didn't figure that casting the magic would do him any favors in that regard, since Death had already warned him that the Dark Arts were more than a little addicting. Every spell required a certain emotion, and the spell itself inspired emotion, which precipitated a savage cycle.
It explained Snape's bad attitude, that much was certain.
Hunched over Magick Most Vile, Harry remained entirely alert, just in case he had to hide the book quickly, while his eyes roamed over the pages.
Some of the magic contained within didn't relate to spells, which was refreshing honestly, because there were only so many torture curses that one person needed to know before it all started to seem redundant. Other aspects of the Dark Arts related to ritualistic summoning and binding of demons, the brewing of elixirs to enslave the minds of others, the usage of alchemy to enhance and transform your own body, the construction of powerful blood-infused wards, and the art of the taboo.
Quirrel had hinted that Voldemort once placed a taboo on his name, and now Harry knew exactly how he had done it. He also knew the counter to the technique, but he wasn't about to use it without speaking with Death first.
It was interesting how the two most iconic aspects of Voldemort's reign-the dark mark and the taboo on his name—were so very elementary when it came to the Dark Arts. Both of those techniques were contained in Magick Most Vile, and Harry could probably have replicated their effects even now, having read about them once.
The dark mark was a ritualistic binding that was sealed with a murder. It was soul magic, and it tied the soul of the servant to the master in an irreversible fashion, allowing the master to summon, punish, or command his followers from any distance without delay. The ritual itself was very simple: it began with a tattoo of any shape carved with a ritual blade into the skin. A specific incantation was spoken over the tattoo and a drop of the master's blood was added to the location of the mark. Then, the follower would commit a murder within twenty-four hours, and the mark would manifest itself. The only difficulty part was the preparation of the ritual blade; that was complex enough that Harry skipped over it.
Voldemort's methods were so very elementary. So what was it about Voldemort that made him a Dark Lord? His mastery over the Dark Arts wasn't immediately apparent, although his love of the Unforgivables and his usage of torture curses were both indicative of his willingness to use dark magic whenever the occasion presented itself. It appeared to Harry that Voldemort had been more of a political mastermind than a magical one, since he never managed to strike Dumbledore down in single combat even at the height of his power.
It made him feel better about his chances, honestly.
Harry turned the page and began reading about yet another sacrificial rite which would summon a demon and bind it to the corpse of the one who was sacrificed, creating an abomination that may or may not actually follow the commands of the summoner. Characteristics of the ritual included the use of a bronze dagger, the runic arrangement of the engravings on the floor, and the requirement that the sacrifice be a human male between the ages of eighteen and twenty-four.
It explained that the creature which resulted from the ritual was useful mostly as a terrorist's implement of choice, since it could hardly be relied upon to follow detailed commands, and usually had as much hatred for its master as it did everyone else.
The images that were helpfully provided by the text displayed a half-rotting corpse cheerfully beating a helpless old man into a pulp with its bare hands.
Feeling somewhat queasy, Harry was just about to close the book and find something else to study when a loud crack from behind his chair caused him to jump almost three feet into the air.
"Merlin's saggy balls!" he exclaimed, shoving the book into its mokeskin pouch as he spun around to face the intruder with his transformed staff held nimbly between his hands. The wicked points of the spearhead glinted in the moonlight as he leveled it straight towards the oblong face of the diminutive elf that had appeared in his room, and its eyes widened dramatically when it saw the danger it was in.
"Oh, mercy!" it wailed, covering its face with its bony fingers. "Dobby begs you!"
Harry hesitated for a moment, before prodding the elf roughly. It screeched in fright and collapsed into a ball. "Who are you?"
"Oh, great master Harry Potter, sir, Dobby didn't mean no harm! Promise! Don't hurt Dobby!"
With a long-suffering sigh, Harry withdrew his spear and sat down in his chair again, facing the elf. "Alright, get a hold of yourself and sit down, please."
The elf peeked at him from under his arms with tears gathering in his huge gray eyes. "No wizard ever asked Dobby to sit before," he whispered. "Truly, the great Harry Potter is as good and gracious as they say!"
After a great deal of cajoling and a conjured chair, the elf sat down and gazed adoringly at Harry Potter with his tiny legs swinging freely. "The great and wonderful Harry Potter must not return to Hogwarts," the elf declared, quite loudly.
"And why is that, then?" Harry asked. For a moment, the elf simply blinked at him, chewing on his lip feverishly, but then he surged up until he was standing on his chair, teetering dangerously, before diving headfirst into the floor with a great THUMP!
Harry staggered to his feet, aghast, as the elf crawled dazedly to its feet and went to mount his chair once again. It was only when the young wizard reached out and lifted Dobby up by his pillowcase that the elf seemed to remember where he was, and when he met Harry's confused, rather irritated expression he began to wail again.
"Oh, Dobby is a bad, bad elf! Such a bad elf! Dobby is closing his ears in the oven for a week after this, oh yes!" he blabbed, shaking his head frenetically.
"There will be none of that behavior while you're in my presence," Harry ordered, placing Dobby into his hair. "Don't move from that seat."
Dobby swallowed his words as Harry pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.
Taking his seat again, Harry stroked his chin slowly, trying to find some sense in what could very well pass as a crazed hallucination induced by reading too many books about the Dark Arts.
"Why shouldn't I return to Hogwarts?" he asked, although he was loth to set the excitable elf blubbering again.
The question seemed easy enough to answer, however, since the elf only bobbed his head with flapping ears. "Terrible things be happening this year," Dobby intoned. "Terrible things."
"What kind of terrible things?"
Seeing the elf begin to eye the corner of the desk rather suggestively, Harry rushed to find a new line of questioning.
"Don't you trust me to take care of myself while I'm at Hogwarts? How could I become the great wizard that I have to be if I don't go to school?"
"Harry Potter is a great wizard already," Dobby told him, almost in a scolding fashion. "It would be much too dangerous for him to return to Hogwarts this year. He should pick and choose his battles, oh yes."
"I can't just skip a year of Hogwarts," Harry told the elf seriously. "If you'll tell me what to look for, I would be much safer."
"Oh, but Dobby can't. Dobby would but Dobby can't!" he cried, banging his fists against his thighs.
Harry waited for the elf to calm himself, made a great show of thinking deeply, and heaved a sigh. "Alright," he said. "I'll agree not to go to Hogwarts if you tell me which family you serve."
The elf's cheeks blew out and his little fists clenched. For a moment, he shook his head, ears flapping wildly, before he closed his eyes. "Dobby cannot…" he whined.
"Then it looks like I am going to Hogwarts," Harry replied easily. He narrowed his eyes when Dobby got a determined glint in his wide eyes.
"Dobby will have to protect the Great Harry Potter some other way," he said resolutely, raising his finger beside his head. With a final nod, he disappeared, and Harry sat back in his chair with a headache forming at the base of his skull.