Chapter 5

.o.o.o.o.o.

Draco held the lantern out in front of him, letting it illuminate the path before him. Darkness had long fallen and the grounds of Malfoy Manor were cast in shadow. He had left behind the perfect, manicured garden area and now followed the narrow, gravel road that led into the woods beyond. Two hundred acres of dense forest could hide many things. Draco did not doubt that these woods held more dangerous Malfoy secrets than the mansion ever would. It was quite fortunate that even the aurors that had come to strip the place again and again both before and after the Dark Lord's return had been hesitant to fully investigate what might lie within the trees.

Draco knew the path was charmed to repel the forest creatures, but he could still hear them rustling in the brush nearby, hooting and cawing and screeching. His hand kept drifting to where he normally kept his wand and he was becoming frustrated at its absence. As a child, his father had warned him never to come into the woods alone and never after dark, but he was a child no longer. The place he needed to go only revealed its entrance in the deepest part of the night.

After the disastrous night spent in the pumpkin patch, Draco had returned home and slept for two days. He felt feverish, he felt foreign magic coursing through his veins that his body was working to purge, but was unsuccessful. It left his hands shaking and everything else weak and aching.

It seemed impossible that Potter would be able to awaken that... curse. Draco had assumed that such magic would have died with the Dark Lord. How could he have been so naive? Potter was able to channel the magic of a dead man. How? This was the question that needed answering before any other conclusions could be drawn.

Draco came upon the gnarled tree he sought. He pricked his finger with a sharp blade and held the small bead of blood over a particularly large knot in the wood until it splashed upon it. The outline of a door appeared upon the tree. Draco pushed it open to reveal a set of stairs that led under the forest floor.

It had been a wine cellar at once point in time, and at another it had been used as a place to imprison and torture muggles. Draco passed the old oak barrels and crumbling holding cells, disinterested. He entered into a better kept room behind an iron door.

Artifacts, some behind glass cases, were displayed as trophies. Glass jars held human body parts and stoppered phials of various, unknown potions were arranged carefully upon a table in the corner. There were numerous bookshelves upon which sat hundreds of books. His father's private collection. These books were no longer allowed to be circulated in public. They'd be burned or confiscated due to their subject matter. Subjects that the ministry had deemed too dangerous for the honest, average, law-abiding wizard.

Draco stepped forward to clear the dust from their spines, plucking out a few as he combed through the shelves. He set to work.

Draco's research revealed to him, in a number of hours, that magical signature was tied to the soul, indeed some magical theorists argued that the two were one and the same... and therefore muggles must be beings possessing unclean souls and should be eradicated...

But Draco only skimmed those parts, of course. The point was that an individual's magical signature ought to be impossible to fake. Perhaps most people would have given up there, but Draco was determined, if only because he remembered overhearing a whispered argument between his parents about the state of the Dark Lord's soul.

"I'm quite certain, Lucius. Bellatrix has told me the truth."

"It doesn't matter so long as he gets us what we want."

"It's taboo for a reason. He isn't whole. He isn't human anymore."

So how did one go about splitting his soul, if that was indeed the only way to copy an individual's magical signature? Draco finds an answer in a book about dragons, of all places.

...It was through the ancient Celtic drakes that wizards became wise to the practice of Soul Splitting. Laticus coined this term after observing mature, self aware drakes in captivity and he rightly identified it as how they were able to sustain their lives indefinitely. The drakes, in the process of hoarding and protecting their gold, were consumed by their greed and bloodlust so entirely that they would be able to impregnate their treasures with the essence of their own magics. In more modern times, Soul Splitting is used by wizardkind, only in the most dire of circumstances, in the creation of an object called a Horcrux, a vessel in which a piece of the soul is contained temporarily...

Draco thumbed through more books, a few of which required additional blood payment to unlock, and one that ordered him to recite his lineage all the way back to the tenth century. This Horcrux really was among the most vile of magics. What was the point of eternal life if one had to sacrifice everything worth living for in order to gain it? It wasn't much of a trade, in Draco's opinion.

So was Potter in possession of the Dark Lord's Horcrux? It was the only conclusion that made sense.

Draco thought back to the battle for Hogwarts, remembering how he, Crabbe and Goyle had hidden themselves in the Room of Hidden Things to avoid the fighting... that is, until Potter and his friends had blustered in and Vincent had decided that it was time to finally prove himself in the eyes of the Dark Lord. Before that, however, Draco remembered Granger with her arm outstretched.

"Accio diadem!" she'd shouted. And later, after the room had been consumed in the blaze and Draco had climbed onto the back of Potter's broom, he remembered being outraged that Potter had gone back into the flames in order to save a fucking tiara of all things. He'd stared at that tiara hanging on Potter's arm, reflecting the bright fiendfyre, wondering what on earth could be so special about it.

Draco snapped the book shut and set it back on the shelf with the others, eyes hard with the decision he'd just made. He'd have to confront Potter and possibly find out how to destroy this accursed object. Surely, that would be enough to fix the problem.

Dawn had broken and the forest was lit in grey light. A gentle rain was falling over the grounds by the time that Draco had come back in sight of the manor. Now that Kreacher was in residence, Draco gave little thought to the mud and dead leaves he was tracking all over the floor.

His mother was in the dining hall and he was unable to sneak past her shrewd gaze.

"Where have you been, darling?" Narcissa called to him, sipping whatever alcoholic beverage she'd deemed a suitable breakfast. Draco clenched his fists and pasted a fake smile upon his face before joining her in the room. Her nose wrinkled as she caught sight of how filthy he was.

"I've been staying at Hogwarts," Draco said to her shortly, "They have me assisting with a class." His mother resumed flipping through the magazine in front of her. Glossy pages of witches twirling about in designer robes flashed briefly in the corner of Draco's vision.

"You shouldn't lie to your mother. We can always tell." She hummed, setting the magazine down and casting a spell so that it slid all the way down the long table and stopped before Draco. Displayed was an article written about the Macmillan masquerade. There were various, potential scandals featured, as the author of the article had only pictures and speculation to go off of. This author was clearly someone who made his or her living purely on making commentary of the lives of the rich and famous. Draco supposed the Malfoys still made that list, though they were rather more infamous now. Ginerva Weasley's exploits were covered heavily, as she had not arrived at the masquerade in the company of the Savior as all had expected. Seems a famous quidditch player in attendance had gotten quite drunk and made a fool of himself. And off to the side there was a picture of Draco, his likeness snogging Potter while on the dance floor in an endless loop. It would have surely been front and center if the author had recognized Potter, but the glamors had done their job.

Malfoy heir turns heads, caught locking lips with mystery man! The caption read. The magazine as a whole was a pure-blood friendly publication, and so made little hubbub of the Malfoy sordid past, something for which he was grateful. Draco did not need to read anymore, he collected the magazine and walked it back to his mother

"Who is he?" Narcissa asked, wary, as he approached

"Must I tell you of my every sexual conquest, mother? He is no one," Draco said weakly, his usual aloof swagger failing to come through. He could feel his mother studying him even after she'd taken the magazine and opened it up again.

"Just be careful, dear. I don't wish to see you get your heart broken."

"There was never any danger of that. You've taught me well." Draco replied. The latest issue of the Daily Prophet was sitting atop a pile of mail and the front page caught his attention. It was an announcement of Death Eater Augustus Rookwood's upcoming Kiss. His trial had dragged on longer than most, what with his ministry connections and the obscurity afforded to him by the Department of Mysteries. Seems in the end, it still couldn't save him. Draco found that his heart was racing and he recalled more of that night in the Lestrange manor.

"This is Augustus Rookwood."

The Dark Lord had introduced the thin, aging Death Eater to Draco, extolling his loyalty, his previous work for the ministry, his more recent experiments...

"Rookwood and I have need of you, Draco, or rather someone with your attributes."

Rookwood knew. Rookwood had been there. He'd been the one to draw the conjuration circle for the ritual.

He'd have answers.

Draco turned on his heel and left abruptly, realizing that he had an owl to send and that time was of the essence. Potter could wait. Rookwood could not.

.o.o.o.o.o.

It was an everstorm that surrounded Azkaban. The clouds masked the brightness, preventing the walls of the fortress from ever feeling the warm caress of the sun or stars. Thunder rumbled weakly in the distance, rain pooled upon rock and stone, and the ocean waves crashed against the jagged cliffs, jarring and rhythmic.

Two uniformed aurors fixed a boat to the rickety docks. One extended a hand back into the interior of the small barge in order to assist a young woman. She was tiny, slim and dark-haired. A wisp of a thing. She wore a shawl to protect herself from the rain and pulled it more tightly over herself as she made her way ashore, flanked by the two aurors.

The trio made their way up the winding and treacherous gravel pathway that led up into the fortress. The girl shivered as they passed through the rusted iron portcullis. A dementor floated overhead, a silent, miserable sentinel. Once inside, they were met with a wizard guard, who questioned them and searched them roughly. Nearly as decrepit as the non-human guards, the depraved man had the audacity to lay a hand upon the young woman's chest, jeering when he received no outraged reaction. The aurors were slow to step in.

After being cleared, the three resumed their walk through the haunted corridors. The woman kept her gaze from wandering from side to side, unable to look upon the faces of the condemned. They reached a rather deserted wing and the two aurors paused.

"Down at the end, to the right," one of them said to the girl, "You have ten minutes."

She left her escort standing at the entrance to the hall and moved forward alone. Most of the cells were empty, covered in mold and grime. It was cold and drafty, with the dampness seeping into the very stone, creating a wet, rotting stench. At the end of the hall, she came upon the cell she sought.

He had been a thin man before. Now he was positively skeletal. His cheeks were sunken and his eyes seemed to bulge out of his head. His hair was a wild mess of grey mats and he was dressed in a tattered shift that did little to preserve his modesty.

There were drawings all over the cell, scratched onto the dark stone with another rock. Diagrams and symbols mostly, but upon one wall was a crude drawing of a woman holding out her arms and a crucifix above her. Words beneath read.

"And the angel answered and said unto her, The Holy Ghost shall come upon thee, and the power of the Highest shall overshadow thee: therefore also that holy thing which shall be born of thee shall be called the Son of God."

The girl shivered and the man finally came to realize that he had a visitor. He took several seconds to recognize her, blinking slowly, perhaps attempting to dispel the waking slumber that settled behind the eyes of all Azkaban's occupants.

"Delia?" he whispered, voice hoarse with disuse. He crawled to the cell bars and used them to hold himself up while he examined his visitor. "Delia!" he said again, eyes misting with tears, "My sweet girl. You came." He reached a filthy hand through the bars as if to touch her, but she shrank away, disgust upon her face.

"Sorry to disappoint you in your final hours, Rookwood, but I am not your daughter," the girl said in a low voice that would not carry to the end of the corridor where the Auror guards stood. Rookwood's eyes swept over her once again, as if he was second guessing his eyesight, but then he seemed to come to the proper conclusion. His face darkened.

"Who are you? What have you done with her?" he whispered after his gaze had briefly flickered over to the aurors.

"She is safe, as long as I get the information I came for. In any case, it isn't as though you can do much for her now, close to death as you are."

"You'd be surprised, stranger, of just what I am capable of, even behind these bars, even after I am gone. I have powerful friends," the man threatened ominously.

"I rather think we have the same friends, or did at least. We served the same master, for a time," the girl replied. Rookwood had a dangerous look about him now. Being assured of their mutual friends would do nothing to assuage the worry he had for the fate of his daughter.

"What do you want?" the decrepit man spat.

"Near the end of the war, you performed a complex ritual involving blood magic. I need to know the particulars," the girl explained. Rookwood contemplated for a moment. Then, he shoved his face between the bars, lips quirked in a satisfied manner, his answer came out in a hiss of putrid breath.

"There were only six of us, including myself, that ever knew of that particular ritual. Four are dead," Rookwood said pointedly. "How might I assist you... Draco?"

Draco pulled Delia's delicate features into a scowl. He had been hoping to conceal his identity for a while longer, let the other man think he was dealing with one of Voldemort's more threatening stooges, at least for the beginning.

"What was the bloody point of it?" Draco snarled. His questions ought to have been obvious. "The Dark Lord was rather vague and cryptic about the whole thing."

"Anima Infractum," Rookwood said breathlessly. "My life's work. Top secret within the ministry, and I have little doubt it will remain so after I am gone. Nothing of a dark nature that comes out of the Department of Mysteries is ever permitted to see the light of day."

"But what is it, exactly? A curse?" Draco spat impatiently.

"It has no official classification. Personally, I've always considered it a type of evocation."

"Evocation?"

"The summoning of a dark creature," Rookwood clarified. "It has been attempted many times throughout history, but, to my knowledge, has been successful only once, in the early years of the Imperial Roman Empire."

"How is it done?"

"It is very complicated," the disgusting man sputtered, clearly aghast at the thought of having to explain it right then and there.

"I've no doubt. Give me your best summary, Rookwood, or your girl might soon be joining you in the afterlife," Draco finally leveled his threat. Rookwood didn't need to know that Delia had willingly given him her hair for this endeavor. The Rookwoods owed the Malfoys a debt from generations ago. Draco had called it in. Delia had done her part, and then professed that she wished no further contact with either family.

"There are three rituals," Rookwood began bitterly, "In the first, the donor marks the host. In the second, the donor activates the spell and creates the homunculus. In the third, the homunculus is... harvested." Rookwood smiled then, as if he realized why Draco had come to him. "You needn't fear, Draco. What you experienced was merely the first ritual that must be undertaken, completely harmless on its own. And with the Dark Lord gone, Anima Infractum will have no effect on your life."

"And if he wasn't gone?" Draco demanded. Rookwood let out a nervous laugh. Draco thrust Delia's petite arm through the bars and dragged the older man up against them painfully, forcing him to consider the possibility with some sincerity. "What then?"

Rookwood's weak eyes searched Draco's borrowed face, doubtful, wary, wanting a confirmation for what Draco had just suggested. Manicured fingers released their hold upon Rookwood's tattered garment.

"Can it be activated by an outsider?" Draco rephrased the question.

"No," Rookwood said, quite certain. "Not unless the person can somehow mimic the magical signature of the original donor. Very nearly impossible."

"Possible, then." Draco surmised. The prisoner turned away to pace a few steps.

"No, no. Not in this instance, I should think. The wizard would have to have knowledge of the ritual. And it would require the possession of a type of... very dark artifact," Rookwood said, hand rubbing his beard as he continued to pace, mind working furiously now. He suddenly paused, remembering something. "...an artifact that the Dark Lord was rumored to have created."

A Horcrux...

This time, it was Rookwood who was at the bars again. He snatched Draco's- or rather Delia's- left arm, perhaps momentarily forgetting there would be nothing there.

"Has it begun?" the ragged man asked, old passion reignited, eyes alight with the possibilities. "The second phase? Will the Dark Lord return again?"

Draco wrenched his arm away as the horror sank in and he felt as though he might vomit. He took a few wobbly steps backward, made all the more unsteady by Delia's heeled shoes, and he found himself grabbing the opposite wall for support. Rookwood was speaking again, pleading, beseeching.

"Get me out of this place. You need me. You'll die without me. Only my research can save you now!"

Draco shook his head, arms coming up to hold himself. He didn't want to be anyone's experiment, or any sort of conduit for dark magic. He wanted nothing more to do with the man before him. Nothing more to do with the Dark Lord. Why was this happening to him? Just when he finally thought he could be free of all of it.

"Ms. Rookwood, are you alright?"

The Aurors had come, drawn over by Rookwood's sudden lunge for him. The old man now lied stupefied in his cell for the transgression.

"My father is quite mad," Draco said quietly, pulling Delia's shawl around himself. "I wish to leave now."

.o.o.o.o.o.