Ducking under a low-lying branch holding scarlet-red maple leaves, Harry reluctantly followed Luna through the forest in search of shelter. "What did you mean back there? About not coming out ever?"

Her brown corduroy trousers got snagged on a bramble bush, causing her to stop to release the material from the thorny bush. "Have you ever heard of the Bocca del Inferno?"

Seeing that she was having problems, he bent low and tugged the fabric loose, pricking his thumb in the process. "No," he replied, watching the blood well on the pad.

"Don't let that fall on the ground!" she warned, grabbing his hand and promptly stuffing the digit in her mouth, sucking away the crimson fluid.

Harry stared at her, dumbfounded. "W-what are you doing?" he managed in a hoarse voice, actually liking the sensation of her tongue lapping on his finger.

Eyes fluttering, she withdrew his thumb, gave it a cursory glance and let him have his hand back. "You shouldn't spill your blood on these grounds," she advised. "It would cause your soul to be irretrievably bound to the place."

He was still staring at her. "How do you know all this stuff? And what the hell is the Bocca del Inferno?"

"The 'Mouth of Hell'." She blinked away her brief stupor and turned to continue along their path.

"Luna!" Harry shouted after her. "You need to tell me more than that."

Heaving a sigh, she plopped herself down on the first fallen tree log she deemed safe enough. "I assume you know the folklore and histories of many cultures regarding the Underworld, right?"

"Not really, only the Muggle ones," he answered with a shrug, sitting beside her. "But I'm sure you can enlighten me."

"I'll tell you, but you should really take it upon yourself to study these things," she admonished gently.

"You're starting to sound like Hermione."

"Hera forbid," she laughed. "I love Hermione dearly, but she is quite the termagant and a bit supercilious."

Harry wisely said nothing regarding this, not wanting to take sides against either friend. He'd had enough of that with Hermione and Ron in the past. "So…"

"There are several Bocche del Inferno all over the world, but I think the one here, which is inside The Ridges, is the largest one in the United States." She began making swishing arcs with her wand, even though it was still softly pulsating with the low light of her Lumos. "I didn't realise that it was an entrance until we'd been displaced by the Portkey."

"The one that had been tampered with."

She nodded. "Bocche del Inferno tend to negate magic of all sorts, including Apparition, like a Muggle black hole. Each of them consumes all the energy within the area to be used for its own nefarious purposes, and throws everything off balance."

"If we're so close to the place, then how come we haven't lost use of our magic?" he asked curiously.

"I wouldn't say that's exactly true," she disputed. "Keeping this Lumos charm going is quite draining."

Removing his own wand, Harry tried to cast his own Lumos, but, other than a few sputters and sparks, nothing happened. "Shite." He tried again with Incendio, but produced the same results.

"It's okay," Luna consoled, patting him on the shoulder. "We just need to get away from this place before something worse happens."

Shaking his wand as if that would make it work, he growled in frustration. "What could possibly be worse?"

A piercing scream echoed in the chill night air around them, sending shivers up both their spines.

"What was that?" he whispered, looking off in the direction of the cemetery they'd just left.

Luna hopped off the log and tugged him after her. "It could be John Simms, the hangman, one of his victims, or Death itself."

"What?" He stopped her. "You mean to tell me The Grim Reaper likes to call this place home? I thought there were more than one of these 'Mouth of Hell' things."

"There are. The one in Bucharest is particularly harsh and the origin of many legends." She continued on, insistent that they leave.

"Wait!" he hissed, grabbing her by the arm. "I want answers!"

She shook him off and glared. "The Bocche del Inferno lie pretty much dormant because it takes years to amass the kind of energy it requires to open them." Tears fringed her lashes, but she scrubbed them away. "Sure, they emit the stray spectre bent on destruction every now and then, like a hiccup, but truly harmful or dreadful things don't happen until they absorb so much power that a gateway to Hell itself can be opened."

Narrowing his eyes, Harry studied her pinched face. "Do you know why we were sent here?"

"No," she answered quickly. "But I think one of us is the catalyst to finally open this gateway."

His eyes widened. "How would that happen?"

"Only with a horrific death."

The malevolent child stood before Draco and Hermione, slapping the metal rod upon his free hand in an intimidating manner, and smirking at them. "I want to play," he whispered and disappeared once more.

Hermione moved her legs so that the book fell between them and slammed shut, before scooting back into Draco, who was just as wary. "Where did he go?"

"Do you really want to know?" He unzipped his hoodie to release her. "We need to leave this room."

Both stood, and, just as Draco zipped his jacket, the boy reappeared, standing to his right. He had no time to react when the child swung and embedded the saw-toothed edge of the rod into Draco's thigh, his screams bouncing off the rafters.

"Draco!" Hermione shouted, watching him crumble to the floor in agony, as the boy disappeared again.

Clutching his now bloody leg, Draco groaned with pain, but still managed to extract the weapon from his flesh. "Fucking blighter!" Once it was free, he flung the contraption across the room and tried to stand, only to fall from the pain.

"Sit," Hermione ordered, tearing off the hem of her shirt. Twisting it, she wrapped it around his thigh, several inches above the wound. "This should keep you from bleeding out."

He nodded. "We need to get out of here, now."

Hooking his arm over her shoulders, she grabbed both of their packs and helped him hobble to the doorway. Suddenly remembering the Bluebell jar, she turned only to see the flames flicker briefly and then die, the beaker having been smashed in the tussle. "Damn," she grumbled.

"What?"

"The Bluebell fire has died, and I can't conjure another one."

"I think we have more important things to worry about than that useless spell," he grunted. "Let's go."

Poking her head out into the hallway cautiously, she looked left and right, finally deciding to take a left and follow a long corridor to a more habitable place. They made their way down the linoleum-floored hall until they reached what looked like a reception area where several green vinyl benches were scattered about.

Easing Draco down onto the lime-green padding, Hermione examined their surroundings. "This looks like a lobby of some sort," she mused aloud.

"Try the door." He jerked his head towards the enormous iron gates that closed off the front foyer beyond.

Out of habit she used her wand, and, like before, nothing happened. "This is unbelievably frustrating," she said with a growl, almost giving in to the need to stamp her foot. Waving her hand in front of the iron, she tried several non-verbal spells to no avail.

"The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting different results," he observed, laughing somewhat at her continued use—and failure—of spells.

"Where on earth did you learn that?" she asked incredulously.

He pointed to a large wood and polished metal plaque that hung above the door. "Apparently, Albert Einstein said it."

She followed his gaze to the plaque. "Wildly inappropriate, but interesting."

He scowled in pain. "Why inappropriate? And who is this Einstein fellow?"

"He was a Muggle scientist," came her reply as she tried to pry apart the rusted-shut gate with her hands. "Several Arithmancy theorems are based on some of his work." Giving up on that avenue, she examined the hinges that were bolted to the wall. "And it's inappropriate because mental illness is very serious and that quote was just flippant."

"Granger…"

"Not now, Malfoy," she grumbled, standing on tip-toe to remove one of the hinge pins. "I'm rather busy at the moment."

"Granger!" he yelled this time, garnering her attention. "We have company."

She whirled around, expecting to see the evil child again, but was shocked further when she heard something dragging itself down the hallway and moaning. Peering around the corner, she covered her mouth to keep from retching.

It was the torso of what looked like a man, wrapped in cellophane, his arms and what remained of his legs, all that was visible. The thing walked on its hands, stopping every so often to reach out and drag a sizable mass to its side. Upon further inspection, Hermione realised said mass was the head that belonged to the body.

"What is it? I can't see from my position," Draco complained.

Backing away slowly, she shook her head. "Trust me, you don't want to know."

"Is it in this book?" He pulled the heavy tome from within her sack and carefully turned the pages with his ineffective wand.

Hermione sat beside him and hefted the volume into her lap, using the same method of turning pages as Draco had. She gave the hallway a sidelong glance to see the body meander into view. The particular 'spirit' didn't seem malicious, and she felt pity for the poor soul who'd ended this way.

"Zeus' bollocks!" Draco shrieked, as the thing lumbered past them. "What the hell is it?"

"It is literally called, The Torso," she murmured, scanning the text and conferring with her notes. They watched it disappear down the corridor they'd just come from.

Peering over her shoulder, he looked at the page. "How can you read any of that?"

"In Dumbledore's will, he left me a book full of ancient runes." She made a mark on her notepad with a Muggle pencil. "After translating that, this was considerably easier, but there's more of it."

"I saw other sketches in there," he said. "Whenever I tried to open it, it was like Severus could feel that I was tampering with it. He'd always catch me before I could even crack the cover, but I learned how to handle it by reading other Dark Texts on how to do it without killing myself."

"How did you know the pages were made with human skin, then?"

Darkness entered his eyes. "Father used to have a book like it, but it was always encased in glass, never to be touched. I asked about it once, stupidly thinking I could handle it, even if my father wouldn't." He looked away. "He became nervous and said that I was to never open it, or my life and soul would be bound to it."

"Draco…" she began hesitantly. "I've opened this book, and other than a few singed fingers, I feel no pull or manipulation from it. It's just a creepy book."

Pushing himself to a wobbly, upright position, he sneered down at her. "That's because I was the first one to open the damned thing, Granger!"

"What do you mean? I opened it while we were in the…" She trailed off, a look of horror etched on her face. "You stole the book from me before I could really get a good look at it." She stood and grabbed his arm before he toppled over from weakness. "But what about Severus? Surely he'd opened the book—"

"He avoided the cursed thing like Dragon Pox," he hissed, white hot pain originating from his wound and shooting up his right leg. "The wards on that thing were so heavy it's a wonder I was even able to do break them. I was a fool to do so."

Strengthening her grip to keep him steady, she gazed at him with something akin to pity. "Why did you take the book, Draco?"

Flinching at the emotion gathering in her eyes, he turned his attention elsewhere. "So you wouldn't be the one bound to it."

Tears misting her vision, she bit her lip. "Thank you," she whispered in heartfelt gratitude. She didn't think berating him for such an action would go over well, and he was already in distress.

He cleared his throat and thinned his lips. "So, what else does that book tell us?"

Retrieving the tome, she opened it to the title page. "According to this, it is the book of the Dark Zodiac." Turning back to the page featuring the child that had accosted him, she indicated the symbol underneath the sketch. "He represents Aries, the first sign of the known zodiac."

"Puerile Trelawney shite, if you ask me," he muttered, finally collapsing to the bench again.

She snorted in response. "Normally, I would agree, but this has nothing to do with Trelawney."

"Expound, oh wise know-it-all," he teased, his speech somewhat slurred.

"Draco?"

He looked at the worried expression on her face. "What?" Sensing her hesitation, he waved her off. "I'm fine, Granger… just find a way to get out of here."

Giving him a dubious look, she carefully turned the page with her wand. "Completion of the Dark Zodiac marks the opening of the…" She squinted at the next term. "Bocca del Inferno." Tapping the end of her wand against her temple, she murmured something under her breath. "The Mouth of Hell."

"That's comforting," he drawled, slumping further onto the bench. "Granger…" he managed between pants.

"Oh God, Draco!" She dropped the book on the floor after one glance at his state. "Stay here. I'll be right back."

"Yeash…" His slur became more pronounced. "`M `bout ta run a bloody marathon."

"Snarky even while bleeding out," she muttered, leaving him in the lobby to go in search of something to help with the slow but steady blood loss. She stopped in the middle of the corridor, her own words giving her pause. "No," she told herself, seething, "he will not die."

Cautiously, she poked her head into what looked like patient rooms, some even complete with outlandish drapes, decrepit bedding, and horrible carpeting riddled with holes. In one of them, however, she spied a wheelchair with movable leg plates. Perfect. Grabbing the handles, she wheeled the rickety chair out past the door, but soon returned to the room which seemed in better shape than most.

She opened drawers, searching for anything that could be used to fix his leg or stem the flow of blood. One held dead pigeons, so she shut it quickly, pressing the back of her wrist to mouth to keep from being sick. In another she found medical instruments of a medieval nature, positively barbaric in design. About to give up, she opened the bottom-most drawer and found a Muggle iron.

Snatching it, she deposited it on the seat of the chair, and went back inside to rummage in the kitchenette drawers this time. She concluded that this must have been an employee's room since there were no locks on anything and it resembled a tiny flat rather than a padded cell. Opening one of the cupboards above the sink, she found what she was looking for: a box of matches.

"He may hate me even more after this," she muttered to herself, wheeling her collection back towards the lobby.

Making sure Hermione was gone, Draco sat up and dug around in his knapsack for the portable Pensieve Snape had told him to bring. He was somewhat surprised it still worked, what with the loss of their magic, but Pensieves were notoriously resistant to drainage of any sort.

Still rummaging through his knapsack, he spared a guilty thought for Hermione, who was alone in another room, trying to find a way to patch him up. It wasn't like he was purposely deceiving her about his condition, but he needed to see the memories… without her sticking her bushy head in the bowl with him. His thigh did pain him quite a bit, that much was true, but the little nutter hadn't nicked a bone or a major artery with his toy, so he felt pretty confident that he'd keep his leg. He found the leather pouch containing the phials, and withdrew them as well.

Magic really was amazing, he mused. The Pensieve retained its normal size and shape, but did not spill even a drop, ready to receive the memories he held in his palm. He selected one and looked at the writing on the glass. Bargain, it read. He chose another. iHorcruxes/i. Finally settling on the one labelled, The Beginning, Draco dumped the milky fluid into the swirling depths of the stone bowl, dipping his head past the watery surface. Immediately, he was thrust into Snape's memory of the night Dumbledore died.

Following his mentor, Draco watched as he eased the Headmaster's suffering by way of a potion, instead of the killing curse Draco himself had contemplated on using. The scene ended and faded into another, and he now observed Snape sitting in a chair, tending to the latest wounds a pack of Death Eaters had visited upon him, since he was no longer in Voldemort's confidence.

The dark wizard poured a jar of some potion or another, hissing and nearly biting off his lip to keep from screaming when it frothed and bubbled on his skin. Once the concoction had served its duty, Snape wiped down his arm with a clean cloth, tossing the material in the fire after the mess was gone. He Accio'd a tumbler full of Ogden's best, tossed it back in one gulp, sniffed and rubbed away the sweat on his upper lip with the back of his wrist.

"Fucking Dumbledore," Snape muttered to the fire. "Never telling anyone where anything is!"

Draco could only speculate on what his mentor was grumbling about as he watched Snape roll up his left sleeve to stare at the writhing Dark Mark. He knew full well that it only moved when there was a summons from the Dark Lord and so it had to have been causing the man wretched agony. On impulse, Draco moved to ease his suffering, but cursed rather loudly when his hand went right through Severus' illusion. Stepping back, he sighed in frustration and continued to watch.

Refilling his glass, Snape paused momentarily, the rim pressed against his lower lip. "How could I have been so foolish?" Dropping the tumbler, not caring where it landed, he made his way to his 'private' study, hidden behind several heavy wards and two stone walls. He quickly perused the titles, stopping every two or three books as if to recollect the information each one held. Finally, he came to a metal box upon a podium.

He cast several spells on his hands and then gently began opening the container. Once the lid was lifted, the four sides fell away, revealing a book that looked to have originated with time itself. Instead of turning the pages, the Potions master circled the item on the pedestal, eyeing it carefully and stroking his jaw with his thumb, a mannerism that always indicated he was in great contemplation.

Wondering why Snape didn't just open the damned thing, Draco wandered over and looked at it for himself, confused as to why the man hesitated. There was nothing especially menacing about the book, other than it was exponentially more hideous than the one currently in his and Hermione's possession.

"Dare I?" the dour wizard pondered aloud.

His arm must've pained him again, for he gripped it as if there were a thousand knives slitting his veins. At least, that's what Draco felt every time his own Dark Mark rippled on his flesh. Apparently, Snape had made up his mind and stood in front of the volume, wordlessly lifting the cover to turn the pages without touching it. The velum flew by until it stopped just short of the lower cover, causing Snape to step back a bit.

"Tribuo mihi meus votum," the dark wizard incanted while still clutching his left forearm.

An eerie white light filled the room, blinding Severus, and subsequently Draco. This lasted for several minutes, subsiding only when Draco heard him let out a blood-curdling scream. When it was dark once more, the blond removed the arm he'd placed over his eyes to protect himself, blinking rapidly to acclimate to the pitch blackness that covered the room.

The book was no longer resting on the stand. Instead, in its place lay a piece of parchment, smoke rising from it due to words being written by what looked like searing embers, the bright orange-red script fading to black once it had cooled. Draco wanted a better look at the writing, but the paper was snatched from his view, tightly rolled and placed in a cylindrical leather carrying tube by Snape. Draco's gasp at the appearance of his former professor was the last thing he heard or saw before being thrust out of the Pensieve.

Sitting back against the wall, he breathed in and out deeply for a few minutes to reconcile himself with the last image of Snape. He didn't know what had caused his appearance, but the Potions master's eyes had become crimson red, blood trickling from the corners to make their way down his skeletal looking face. The normally sallow skin had been almost bleached white, like bones that had been left in the sun to dry. It was like he had aged before his eyes to little more than a walking corpse.

Had that been the reason he'd hesitated? Thinking back, Draco would've tossed the damnable thing out the window before opening the book, feeling a modicum of pity for the poor soul who did manage to open it, if that's what it did to the reader. He coughed and rubbed his eyes, then slid the Pensieve back into his backpack, knowing Granger wouldn't be gone for much longer.

As if on cue, she came whirling around the corner, pushing a beat-up chair with wheels, the moment he secured the buckle. "Found something that should help," she said panting, out of breath.

"What's all that?" he asked, giving the assorted items on the seat a dubious glare.

"Stuff," she murmured evasively, depositing a Muggle iron, a box of matches, and a couple strips of questionable linen on the pad beside him.

"Granger…" he growled, not liking the determined look in her eye.

She thinned her lips in frustration. "Look, we need to close that wound on your leg before you lose more blood."

He glanced at the objects again and quickly calculated what she wanted to do to him. "No!" he roared, scooting away from her.

"It'll stop the bleeding."

"I don't care!" he said, snarling at her. "I'd rather die than—" He stopped midsentence, his attention riveted somewhere over her shoulder.

Noticing his eyes widen, combined with the hairs on the nape of her neck standing on end, she surmised another member of the Dark Zodiac was behind her. "What is it?" she all but whimpered, biting her lip.

"Come towards me… slowly," Draco ordered, holding out his hand.

Doing as he asked, she grasped his hand and let him pull her to sit with him on the bench, both of them now staring in horror at the woman swinging from a rope that was tied to the cross-beams of the ceiling. As she swung, they could see that her wrists had been fastened behind her back with some kind of wire cord, her obvious nurse uniform spattered with red, and her neck covered in bruises that didn't look like the work of a hangman's noose. Slowly, the mangled woman spun, looking directly at them on each pass and smiling.

"Which one is she?" Draco prodded, elbowing Hermione into action.

"U-uhm," she stuttered, retrieving the book and flipping through the pages until she found the image that corresponded to the sight before them. "She must be The Bound Woman."

"Aptly named," he snorted. He darted his eyes to the wheelchair, which was positioned right below the woman's hanging feet, and mentally tallied how long it would take for him to grab it and go. "Think you can get me in that contraption before she takes more of an interest in us?"

"I'm on it." Taking the items she'd previously confiscated, she put them in her bag, slung it over her shoulder, then did the same with his pack. "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be." He looped his arm around her waist and she drew him up to a standing position when the woman was facing the opposite direction.

Hermione unceremoniously dumped him on the seat of the wheelchair just as the bound nurse made another turn, her heated gaze targeting Malfoy. "I'm going to break you," the woman promised. She promptly lashed out with her foot, which connected with his nose, his blood instantly spurting everywhere.

"Go, damnit!" he yelled, his hands covering his sinus area to try and stem the outpouring of warm fluid.

The frizzy-haired witch wasted no time before backing the chair up, swivelling it around and taking off as fast as she could down another corridor.