This is another chapter with a dark part. It contains torture and death.
The next day, Harry and Ron, followed by Draco, emerged out of the pensieve on the second floor of Grimmauld Place. The two aurors had insisted on watching his interrogation scene before allowing him to go anywhere with their precious girl.
Now, they were appeased: under a thousand direct and indirect questions aimed at rooting out any inconsistency, Malfoy had remained stoic and clear. He had no involvement with Hermione's disappearance; he had no idea what the words on the parchment meant; he had no contact with any dark wizards whatsoever; he hadn't held a wand - or anyone else's, for that matter (that sounded dirty, he had informed her when she asked, and she rolled her eyes) - in years; he hadn't cast any spells in the same amount of time; he was part of no dark conspiracy; he would not hurt Granger, he owed her for keeping him out of Azkaban after the war; etc, etc, etc.
This third interrogation (counting the one by the ministry, then the one by Potter), had provided her friends with a miniscule grain of trust. Just enough to let him stand by her side.
Exiting the swirling fluid into the backs of his school adversaries, Draco frowned. He had no idea how she did it, but Granger had removed a piece of her memories. He remembered that moment very well, due to its odd nature…
He was still in there, but no power of will could prevent the answers rolling off his tongue. His pupils were fully dilated; he was under full control of the truth serum. Granger sat across from him, asking question after question, making a series of notes in a small notebook.
She paused suddenly, biting her lip. For a split second, uncertainty peeked through her features, but then her determined eyes met his glassy ones and she asked, "Do you know of any Death Eater that has a scar in the shape of a crescent moon on the back of his right hand?"
"No," he answered immediately. He was surprised; she had promised to keep her questions limited to the scope of this investigation. This seemed… personal?
She just nodded, looking away. He noticed the lip she had been biting was as red as coral. After a moment, the usual questions returned, and he answered them all as honestly as he could.
"Earth to Malfoy!" The ginger Potter nee Weasley clapped her hands in front of his nose. "Come on, we'll bring you up to speed!"
He followed her into the kitchen, meeting Granger's warning glare along the way. Interpreting it wasn't difficult: he was to keep silent about the disparity between what she had shown her friends in the pensieve, and what was in his memories. Wisely, he kept his mouth shut and moved along, storing this little tidbit of information for later.
He spent the next several hours sipping at tea with biscuits, listening to a tale about corruption, black magic, and some crazy neurosurgeon that sounded like he'd added too much mushroom extract to his stew.
"We think it's just one person infecting everyone," Granger concluded. Seeing his confused look, she elaborated.
"If you look at muggle crime statistics, you see crimes rising first in the London area. Then, they fall a bit in London and rise in Paris. Then Venice. Rome. Vienna. Bucharest. Those are all—"
"Major floo hubs," Potter picked up. "Like one person is traveling from place to place, and the infection follows wherever they go. This journey leads us to St. Petersburg, then Moscow, and the trail finally goes cold somewhere in the Ural Mountains. It's hard to find any further information: the towns in that area are small and rural, and most don't publish crime records online. The crimes have continued to rise throughout Britain, however, while returning to their normal levels in continental European countries, so we think he's back here again."
"Do you have any suspects?"
"Only a list of missing Death Eaters," Granger said, handing him a parchment with a number of names. "All those who ran after the last battle and were never caught."
Draco skimmed the list, picking out familiar names; people he had dined with, who had visited his home on numerous occasions.
"Greyback, Rockwood, Yaxley…" he murmured, then returned to one name that caught his eyes in the beginning.
"Antonin Dolohov," he said.
"What about him?" Granger frowned.
"He has family in Russia; in fact, if I'm not mistaken, his family estate is somewhere in the Ural Mountains."
"That can't be right," Potter countered, recalling the Death Eater's file. "He grew up near Yorkshire; his parents are from England as well."
Draco rolled his eyes.
"His great-grandfather was the youngest in a family of five and emigrated here over a century ago. The main Dolohov branch is still is there."
"How in Merlin's name would you know that?" Weasley asked incredulously.
"I can list the lineages, family history and coat of arms for the majority of influential pureblood families in Europe," Draco sneered. "You see, Weasley, that's what's taught in proper pureblood families."
"Well that sounds like a load of shite, and I'm happy mum and dad never spoke of that us," Ginny snorted.
"Well, if that's true, it's a possible lead," Granger thoughtfully tapped a finger against her lip. "Dolohov, hmm… Ok, we'll leave in a couple of days, Malfoy; Harry and Ron will begin sifting through financial accounts and investigating ministry employees who stand to benefit from all of this. Also—"
The tea grew cold as they planned and argued, making plans for the immediate future. It was dawn by the time Granger side-alonged him back to his own home.
"Thanks for not saying anything to them."
"Everyone has secrets," Draco replied with a shrug.
She nodded and said goodbye before apparating away with a pop. He looked at the spot she had just been at, a faint scent of aster and foxberries lingering in the air. His arm was still warm from her touch.
Sighing, he turned away and headed up to the Manor. Tomorrow, for the first time in years, he wouldn't have to rise early as hell to go to that fucking job. His boss could suck it; the stupid, fat muggles could suck it too, and he hoped the whole place burned down. His mood lifted by images of a burning building with a large, cheery, yellow 'M' crumbling into dust, he started to whistle, skipping the rest of the way. This deal with Granger was already paying off…
. . . .
. . . .
...Somewhere in England…
Like angry, burnt coals, the Dark Lord's eyes shimmered from the depth of the room's shadows. A displeased sneer crossed his bloodless face, and Dolohov fell to his knees.
"My Lord," he rasped, "I beg of you-"
"SILENCE!" Voldemort's voice tore through the room, a whirlwind of impending pain. "You have failed me, Dolohov. At the moment that could have brought you great favor, you managed to think with your cock instead of your brain. You will require the use of neither now."
"Please-" the man on the ground whimpered and then felt a chill in his bones as something slithered past his prostrated body.
"Nagini…" What passed for a smile emerged on the pale, bloodless face of his master. The snake hissed in response and curled her body around Voldemort's ankles, raising her head to rest in his lap.
"Nagini," Voldemort repeated, lowering a hand to pet his familiar. A shiver of pleasure shook through the snake, her tongue flickering out with caressing kisses. "You are in luck - she is not hungry."
Dolohov exhaled, his shoulders slumping from relief.
"That," the Dark Lord continued, raising his wand, "will only make your punishment worse. You will become something of an experiment for me, Antonin. You and one other. RISE!"
Stumbling obediently to his feet, Dolohov stared with trembling lips at the end of a pointed wand.
"It will awaken in only very specific conditions; a gift from me to the world." Voldemort said cryptically and then hissed out a string of incomprehensible syllables.
The Death Eater saw a vivid purple light, and then a searing pain ripped through his form, blood boiling in his veins. With a hoarse scream that he could not recognize, for so foreign it sounded, he collapsed in a fit of seizures onto the cold, marble floor. His eyes were wide open, but they could not see; a black, oily abyss surrounded him, pouring into his ears and eyes and mouth.
The last thing he heard before falling into a state of blissful unconsciousness, was the Dark Lord's cruel laughter, colder and drier than the wind that circles the peaks of the Himalayas...
Gasping, Dolohov shot up, wiping beads of icy sweat from his forehead. It took several moments to calm his hammering heart, remembering that it was just a dream, as the echo of Voldemort's laugh slowly drained away, leaving him alone in the darkness of this muggle room. The Other in his mind woke with him and started pacing impatiently, demanding his needs be met.
With a groan, the man heaved himself off the bed, his naked form pale in wan morning light. Scars and pockmarks dotted his body; a bandage covered his right shoulder. Some red had seeped through, and Dolohov surveyed it with distaste before walking to the bathroom and peeling it away in front of a mirror. The skin underneath was raw and bloodied, the veins greenish-black from a poison that he could not eradicate, only contain. A smell of rotting flesh rose from the wound.
"Mudblood bitch," he spat through clenched teeth, remembering the witch that had hexed him months ago.
He had no idea how she tracked him down, or how she had even figured out their plans. All he knew was that she had found him one night, and then they were dueling, flinging hexes and curses at one another. She had been vicious, spells flying off her wand like bullets from a muggle gun, forcing him to dodge and weave. A small owl accompanied her, attacking him from above, aiming for his eyes with its sharp claws.
A veteran of several conflicts, he had stood his own for a time, fighting back with magic designed to maim and kill. He had been confident in his ability to put this girl and her animal down, and that cockiness had cost him dearly. The fight dragged on; slowly, he began to retreat under their united assault. His breaths came out in short and ragged pants, and a weary fatigue settled in, weighing down his movements. Her could see she was sweaty and tired too, but her spells maintained their precision, while his started to go wide or shatter against her defenses, causing no harm. An unfamiliar feeling settled in his gut; after several moments he recognized it as desperation.
He couldn't even apparate away now: all of his attention was focused on deflecting or dodging her spells.
Then, it happened. The owl swooped in a flutter of feathers, pecking at his outstretched arm. It didn't hurt much, but it was enough of a distraction for his exhausted body. The witch's voice peaked in a murderous crescendo, and a particularly nasty bit of dark magic sliced into his shoulder, throwing him back into a wall. With an agonized grunt, he fell to the ground, feeling his wand fly out of his grip. It clattered just out of reach.
This is the end, he thought, as she advanced towards his disarmed form. A dullness spread through his chest, blood from his wound coating the outside of his robes. It was getting hard to breath, his chest feeling like a ton of bricks. Grating, gurgling sounds came from his throat, as a trail of spit crept down his chin. It pooled on the bottom, growing fat and pregnant, and then fell to the floor with a sick plop. It was as red as the fields of poppies near his family's home.
The edges of his vision were dimming, darkness inching in. She was close now, a towering shadow, pressing her wand into his neck.
"For all the people you've hurt," she snarled, her voice as wild as a wolf's. "AVADA-"
The Other took over, grasping control of his body. It had never happened before, not this directly, anyway. He felt like a puppet on stretched strings, jerkily following the orders of its master.
His hand rose as quick as a viper, batting the wand away before the witch could complete her deadly incantation. She tried to jump back, her eyes going wide with surprise, but The Other was too quick. It grasped her hand with his, pulling her close with unhuman strength.
"No!" she gasped and then shrieked, high and peeling, as he felt his teeth bite down on her arm, hard. Her blood mixed with his, tasting as ripe and sweet as sun-kissed cherries.
The breach in her skin was sufficient; there was a lurching feeling as The Other entered her bloodstream. For a brief second he felt its priorities: defend host, kill assailant; failing that, wipe her memories. There was a moment of dizziness then, like one too many spin on a carousel, and he felt The Other retreat from his mind, control of his body snapping back into place.
The witch staggered back, instantly aware of an attack on her senses. A flurry of healing charms erupted from her wand: clotting blood, mending skin, trying to burn the unknown infection away. It was useless, he knew; once The Other was inside, superficial treatment was pointless.
She must have realized this at the same time, because she suddenly fell to her knees, clutching her temples. He could feel a copy of The Other warring inside his attacker, assaulting the barriers of her mind. Most of them stood staunch and stalwart, however; The Other could not spread strong copies, and her life was in no danger.
Still, some defenses were beginning to crack. Even in its weakened state, The Other was a formidable opponent. Shifting and sliding, it could find even the slightest flaw to exploit.
Dolohov's head sank down and spied his wand right by his arm. The witch must have knocked it back to him when she stumbled! A hope flashed through his chest. Mustering all the strength that remained, Dolohov strained his hand out, extending his fingers as far as he could. Barely grazing the wooden edge, he rocked it back and forth until he could curl a finger around and slide it towards himself.
The mudblood was still on her knees, her mental barriers failing one by one. Her eyes were wide and desperate, and she suddenly yelled, calling out to her owl. It flew down instantly, and the last thing he saw was her transfiguring some debris from their fight into a piece of parchment and a quill.
Then, spitting out the spell with blood, he apparated away, and the world went black.
Growling at the memory, he replaced the bandage with a new one, casting a containment spell on the wound. It burned constantly, and when he found the bitch of a mudblood, he would make her pay for every single moment of pain she had caused him.
He left the bathroom and got dressed, before descending to the ground floor. He entered the kitchen, walked towards the fridge, and was in the process of pouring himself some milk when a low moan made his pause. He closed the fridge door, glancing down to his feet. There, a girl, no older than 20, lay, naked and bloodied, her body covered in multiple lacerations. Her eyes, surrounded by trails of dried tears, fluttered open. "Ple-" she tried to beg, but then convulsed in a raspy cough.
A part of him was amused she had survived so long. He had spied her on what he jokingly called 'his rounds'. The Other wanted to spread, needed to spread, and Dolohov had no choice but to comply. He would walk the muggle world, looking for opportune targets, sometimes following his gut, sometimes being directed by the being within him. It was during one of these trips that he saw the girl. She was young and beautiful; long dark hair waving in the breeze, the firm roundness of her breasts evident underneath a hoodie which had CAMBRIDGE spelled out in big block letters. She was happy, laughing and smiling while holding one of those small plastic boxes muggles talked into all the time. The Other whispered his demands, but Dolohov fought him off. Sometimes, he could do that. He wanted this girl for himself.
He got what he wanted.
Imperioused, she took him to the terraced housing unit in which she lived with her parents. He made her kill them, before forcing her to strip in her own kitchen. He didn't force himself upon her, for he couldn't: the Dark Lord had made sure a certain part of his anatomy was gone forever after his failure during the war. So, he didn't touch this girl; just made her cut herself over and over and over again. Her body was his canvas, to do with as he pleased. He transformed her into a work of art.
The most wonderful part of this was she was conscious for the full extent of her torture. Until she could no longer stand from the loss of blood, she bargained, and cried, and begged. Her screams were a melody to his ears, an exquisite arrangement of violin highs and bass lows.
He had been this way all his life. There was no childhood trauma, no terrible tragedy in his past. As a young boy, he had just entered a stage where he enjoyed ripping the wings off of flies and pulling cats' tails. He never left that phase of development; instead, his desires grew and spread. His first murder - a young boy from a village near his home - came at the tender age of 12.
That memory still brought a smile to his lips. Casually stepping over the moaning girl and avoiding any puddles of blood, he pulled out a chair and sat at the table, indulging in some cookies. The mother had been a terrific cook, and a delicious smell wafted from the batch she had baked for her husband and daughter. Now, they were all Dolohov's, along with the milk.
Taking a bite, he pondered his future actions. The problem was he was running out of time. His contacts at the ministry informed him that the infected witch that attacked him - Hermione Granger, who was the cause of so many problems for him - had not been found yet. Her memories had been sufficiently wiped by The Other, and that was good. But it wouldn't hold. Within several months, the infection would die, and her memories would return. Then, she would surely go public, and a huge, organized hunt for his persona would begin. That would keep his partner and their ministry thralls safe, but it wouldn't help him.
The Other growled within him, yearning to be whole. Dolohov had slowly figured out the nuances of his situation over the months following Voldemort's fall. When the Dark Lord died, The Other awoke in his mind, along with several memories that had been concealed.
The Other had few needs: protect itself (along with its host), spread as much as possible, and, most importantly, find The Key. Without The Key, The Other was just a pale version of itself. Voldemort, in very unlikely scenario of his death, had created the two and enchanted the former to unlock the capabilities of the latter.
From what Dolohov understood of his memories, The Key was supposed to make its presence known, but how it would do that was beyond him. Would it send some magical signal? Some sign that attracted The Other like blood in the water draws in sharks?
His lack of knowledge infuriated The Other and it punished him frequently with lighting shocks of blistering pain. It wanted to be whole, to be powerful, and if Dolohov wanted to live, he would find a way to accomplish that.
So he had traveled all across Great Britain and Europe for years, searching obscure references, delving into dusty tomes of dark magic. He tried to follow Voldemort's wanderings when he had been a teen and then a spirit, following his first death at the hands of The-Boy-Who-Lived. He had even visited the home of his ancestors. It all amounted to nothing. So far, Dolohov had found just legends and myths, details of the spell Voldemort based his magic on, but not a single hint on The Key's location.
The girl moaned again, still clutching at life with all the tenacity of youth. He looked down, meeting the raw pain in her eyes. Her hair spread about her head, like a dark heavenly halo.
"Please…" she whimpered, summoning all of her remaining strength to speak her next words.
"Please… let me… die..."
He remembered the horror on her face when he forced her to murder her parents. She tried to fight his control, but she was just a muggle, so what could she really do? She must have been down here for hours, locked in the prison of her helpless body, going over the horrid events again and again in her mind. If he let her live, she would carry those memories with her. She wouldn't last. And so, leaning down and taking out his wand, he granted her this small mercy. Her lifeless eyes blinked open and then froze, staring out into the pale nothingness of death.
He stood, dusting crumbs from his robes, the girl already gone from his mind. The Other demanded action. He apparated away - he had a key to find.
To all of you that are continuing to stick with this story: Thank you! If I write another one, I'll make it much happier...