Author's Note: Hi all! I hope you're having a good week and are being healthy and safe. I want to start out by saying thank you all for sticking with me until now. I know progress is not too fast in this story, but I'm trying to keep things interesting along the way! :)

In this chapter, there will be quite a few important things, but perhaps not as much as interactions. However, there will be, in the future, so don't despair!

A major thank you to my lovely reviewers of last week's chapter, LeahLovesPotter and TheMushroomGuild. I'm always happy to read your names in my mailbox so thank you so much for also making me a happy writer! I'm glad you guys enjoy the story so much and hope not to disappoint. You are amazing! Also a thank you to the Guest reviewer who left a super sweet review of Chapter 7; I hope you'll keep reading and enjoying!

September 1, 1996
Bath

In the end, Sophie waited until after her parents had returned from church and had had lunch until she made herself comfortable on her bed with "Secrets of the Darkest Art". For a moment, she absent-mindedly traced the silver lettering on the cover as she once again tried and failed to remember why the title had sounded so familiar. Then, she decided there was only one way to find out.

She cracked open the book and turned the title page, finding a brief content table. Curses, Potions, Entities. Her gaze paused on each of the categories for the longest of times, but the vague categories would not reveal anything. Again, it seemed there was no way but to go on if she wanted to remember the significance of the book.

The first curse she came across was one that affected the mind of the cursed person. At first, they would feel as though the affected body part was on fire. The text detailed that over the course of hours, the curse would spread to other limbs until the entire body would feel as though it was on fire. There was no countercharm and while excruciatingly painful, the curse did not result in death. Instead, the text noted, the cursed would often kill themselves in an act of despair. The next wasn't much better, and beside the text detailing the flaying curse, was depicted a skinless corpse. Next followed one that deadened the limb that was hit with the curse, and slowly spread out across the body – the same one, she was fairly certain, that professor Dumbledore had been hit with. Again, no countercharm.

She had to put down the book at this point, physically sick to her stomach from what she had read. A part of her wanted to believe that no individual would ever do these things to another. Another part knew from the fact that the curses existed, someone already had. Standing up, she increased the distance between herself and her bed where the book remained and, when she decided that anywhere in the room was still too close, made her way downstairs.

As was often the case on Sunday afternoon during the summer, she found her parents outside, her mother reading a book while her father was going over some documents from his work. Soaking in the scene of utter normality, she was suddenly grateful for her parents, who had never done anything out of the ordinary or even remotely odd. Around them, there were no shadows or darkness. Around them, magic was nothing but a silly children's dream and Voldemort but a child's nightmare. Or so it had been, until not too long ago.

'Say Sophie, what did you say that boy's father did again in the government? I've been talking about his case – anonymously of course – with someone from my work who used to be in family law and I think he may be able to make some suggestions for it.'

'Oh,' she came to a halt, all hopes of not having to think about the magical world wiped from her mind. 'That's really nice of you, Dad but eh… they've already put Draco's father in prison so eh… I guess it's all good for now.'

He let out a low whistle, 'One hell of a lawyer they must have had. And some money, no doubt; usually these cases take years before anything happens.'

'Yeah… some money indeed.'

September 7, 1996
Bath

With the start of the new school year, it was not until the next weekend that she had the mental energy and emotional space to reopen "Secrets of the Darkest Art". In fact, it was not until that Saturday evening, armed with a large mug of tea and a chocolate bar, that she finally made herself reach for the book again.

She leafed past the first chapters, keeping her gaze fixed on a point a bit behind her book as she passed the drawing of the skinned corpse. She finally stopped at the next chapter, the next curse, the Blood-Bourne Curse. While still perfectly gruesome, it was a bit better than where she had left off last time, and she started to read.

She made quite a bit of headway that day, finding the material a little less horrific than the last time. Whether this was because the curses she passed – the Imperius curse, the Ear-shrivelling curse, a coma-inducing charm, and the Flagrante curse – were not so completely barbaric, because she was prepared, or because she could quell her upset stomach with ample amounts of tea and chocolate, she was not sure.

Frustratingly, however, none of the pages she turned did anything in the way of jogging her memory. In fact, the more she read, the more she was certain that such material would have never made it through the production process of the Harry Potter books – and in her opinion, should have never made it into this book in the first place. Once again, she found herself naively wishing that the curses listed had never actually been put into practice.

This begged the question though, why the book had been in Regulus' possessions. Had it simply been a self-assigned study of curses, perhaps borrowed before he left Hogwarts to be better prepared for his career as a Death Eater? Was it mandatory reading for anyone who wanted to become part of Voldemort's following? She thought it likely she would never know, for Regulus himself certainly wouldn't tell and there was no one else to ask.

And so she pressed on. For now, she abandoned the study of the many dreadful curses for the equally dreadful study of poisons. Truly, it was only as much better as is killing someone by pushing them under a train rather than pulling the trigger of a gun yourself – that is, not at all, only it was a little less direct and therefore at least appeared perhaps a tad less gruesome. Apart from poisons, the section also listed the great uses of unicorn blood and the brewing of several potions – amongst them, the potion she knew Voldemort would use – no, had used, Sophie corrected herself after a moment – to create his new body.

The next chapter was another old familiar. It was listed only as the "Emerald potion" and the drawing next to the text aptly depicted a gilded cup, filled to the brim with a deep green, swirling potion. What was more interesting however, was the text that was crammed in the margin. She turned the book sideways, straining her eyes to read the small, slanted handwriting.

'This is it,' she read out loud, 'From what Kreacher described to me, I'm sure this is the potion. The final barrier. Tonight…' She paused, finding that was where the text stopped abruptly. She turned the page, but there was nothing there, nor on the next. Sophie frantically paged through the remainder of the book. The same handwriting was splattered, as if randomly, across some of the pages off the book but not others. She soon found out however that as random as the spacing was, so was the order. Finally she reached the end of the book where she found, on the blank page before the back cover, another of Regulus' additions to the book. Only, rather than another entry to his make-shift diary, it was a crude drawing with a line of strange codes underneath.

The drawing itself she could easily make out as representing a chessboard, with amateuristic representations of chess pieces filling some of the places on the board. The game was seemingly already some ways in progress, she noticed after closer inspection, with both sides missing a roughly equal number of pieces. Not being sure what to make of it, Sophie turned her attention to the string of codes below.

B8, H5, C2… the list went on. However, apart from possible letter-number combinations for chess, there were also codes that made less sense, reaching into the double and even triple digits and containing letters from all across the alphabet. She could only guess at the meaning of the chessboard and the codes, but her gut told her that whatever solution would follow from it would help her unravel the order of the diary entries. Try as she might though, she could not solve the puzzle.

October 5, 1996
Bath

In fact, over the next days Sophie tried desperately to break the code without luck. She had even copied the chessboard and codes onto a piece of scrap paper that she stuffed into the back of one of her school notebooks, and spent rather more school hours than she should on trying to figure out its hidden meaning. At last, by the end of the second week of fruitless staring, she pushed away the book with some annoyance and resolved to think of other things than the blasted book – like her project for History for instance, which was due by the end of next week and which she had yet to start on.

And so the remainder of September passed without much event. She managed to finish her History project in time – if only just – and even received a decent grade. Meanwhile, her mother had ceased her constant worrying over her, which was nice as it gave her a break from her well-meant but ultimately annoying hovering. All in all, things returned to normal – and Sophie could once more pretend there was no such thing as magic.

Indeed, she managed so well that for a time she completely forgot about the book, immersing herself in school and whatever social life she had. It was not until the first Saturday of October, when she was reading over her English literature notes whilst her mother was depositing her clean laundry on her desk, that she was rudely reminded.

'Clean, ironed laundry is on your desk – don't forget to put it away, okay?'

'Yes, Mom.'

'And clean up your desk while you're at it, it looks like a bomb hit it.'

'Will do, Mom.'

'Really, we spent a fortune on notebooks; the least you could do is make your notes in there rather than on scrap paper. Might help your studying too, you know.'

Sophie sighed, only half listening as she turned the page, 'I know.'

'And what class is this for? Some kind of art project of yours?'

At last she was forced to look up, finding her mother was holding the scrap paper with the drawn chessboard on it. A moment of panic passed, before she realised that it was impossible for her mother to understand the significance of what she was holding. She shrugged, deciding it was probably best to stick as close to the truth as possible. 'It was doodled in the back of Emma's book. It's some kind of puzzle but I can't figure it out.'

'Have you asked her?'

'No. I called her yesterday evening but there was no one to pick up the phone. Besides, I don't really want to ask her about it.'

Her mother looked down at the drawing thoughtfully, 'Well maybe your father can help, if it's related to chess?'

Putting her notes down completely, Sophie had to keep herself from sighing deeply. Instead, she said with as unaffected a tone as possible, 'I doubt it. I've obsessed over it many evenings but I don't see the relevance of the chessboard.

'Besides, it's faulty anyways. Some of the combinations down there aren't even possible.'

Now it was her mother's turn to shrug as she put the notebook down. 'Very well, suit yourself. All I'm saying is it may help to get someone else's opinion about it. Get someone else's perspective.' And with that she turned, picked up the laundry basket, and left the room – entirely missing the epiphany that was unfolding all over her daughter's face.

When the door shut, Sophie threw off her English literature notes and strode across the room to pick up the notebook with the chessboard drawing. How stupid she had been! She had searched for logic, for a code, a hidden meaning – when there was absolutely no such thing. If her hunch was right, the chessboard, the letters, they were completely arbitrary, meant only to confuse and to distract. After all, they hadn't been drawn in by some scholarly Ravenclaw, but by a shrewd Slytherin.

She quickly deposited the clothing on her desk chair, searching between the mess on her desk for "Secrets of the Darkest Art" – and mentally having to agree with her mother that it was starting to get time to clean up. When she at last unearthed the book, she opened it on the very last page, where she placed her fingers next to the string of codes. No, not codes, just page numbers, hidden behind a façade of chess terms. She traced the slanted numbers, then leafed back to page 172.

The making of a Horcrux. Of course. She should have known that was why the book of dark magic had sounded so familiar. It was the only book that Hermione had found that gave explicit instructions about how to make a Horcrux. And it was only natural that Regulus must have sought it out too, when he found out about the Slytherin Locket in the Cave.

And indeed, there it was again. The slanted handwriting, starting right above the title – which was circled.

'I did not want to believe it,' the text started, 'I have poured over text after text, looking, hoping for any plausible alternative explanations for what might be in the cave. There aren't.'

She quickly returned to the list at the end of the book and hastily turned to page 81. 'Nothing could have prepared me for the horror of the truth, of what he has done. The steps detailed in this book make me sick to my stomach. But I have no choice.'