Chapter 8

Beginning of September 2003
12 Grimmauld Place, London, England.

Marcus slowly blinked his eyes open, feeling the cool touch of a damp cloth against his forehead. Isabella stood over him, her expression a curious blend of maternal concern and playful sisterly mockery. Seeing him wake up, she smiled. And there went his credibility as the continent's esteemed dueling prodigy, reduced to defeat by mere smoke. Grateful for the care, Marcus grumbled a thank-you and reached for the glass of water Isabella offered him.

"That wasn't a graceful display, Marcus," she teased, a hint of amusement in her voice.

"It wasn't? What exactly happened?"

Isabella shrugged—an odd gesture for the etiquette fanatic—her brow furrowing slightly as she recounted the events. "The smoke appeared to be a lingering remnant, perhaps a specter of sorts. I do not know. It seized control of you through some sort of possession and launched an attack on the Count, trying to flee from the house. The Count thus engaged the specter—well, you—in a duel. It was peculiar, though. The specter was very impressive, and probably an ancient, powerful wizard. He displayed knowledge of obscure spells and impressive dark magic, some I've never heard of. Even the Count was surprised, and you know how knowledgeable he is. However, the specter seemed oddly weakened—it was only a possession, after all."

Marcus nodded, silently urging her to continue with his expression.

"The final result is obvious. Although the Count was careful not to harm you physically, he utterly demolished the specter."

"So he was banished?" asked Marcus.

Isabella nodded solemnly. "I do not think so. Well, not exactly. The Count retrieved a vial and managed to contain the specter inside it. He mentioned something about needing to create a more permanent vessel for it and retreated to his study. He only emerged a few hours ago, just in time for lunch."

Marcus's brows furrowed in confusion. "Lunch? What time is it?" he asked, a sense of disorientation washing over him. Isabella offered a tired smile, her exhaustion evident in the weariness of her features.

"You've been asleep for about forty hours," she replied. "And the Count is awaiting your presence for a debriefing."

Cursing under his breath, Marcus pushed himself upright, his muscles protesting the sudden movement. The Count had not hurt him, but he felt utterly exhausted. It had to have been one hell of a duel. Maybe he could ask the Count for the memories? As he began to ascend the stairs, a wave of realization washed over him. Where exactly was the Count's office?

Isabella's laughter, crystalline and elegant—and maybe, just maybe, mocking—filled the room. With a graceful motion, she moved past Marcus, beckoning him to follow.

"Come on," she said, her voice light. "I'll show you the way."

As Marcus trailed behind her, they navigated through the labyrinthine corridors of the sprawling ancient house. Unlike a few dozen hours ago, when they first arrived to find the house disgustingly dirty, it now exuded an air of grandeur and regal charm. Isabella led Marcus through halls adorned with marble statues and ornate furnishings. In one of the grand staircases, they even encountered Kreacher, the house-elf, diligently cleaning away. Unlike before, he stood with an air of dignity and respect, his demeanor markedly polite as he offered a small bow to Isabella and Marcus.

"Good evening, Mister Marcus, Mistress Isabella," Kreacher greeted them, his voice filled with deference.

Surprised by the change in demeanor, Marcus couldn't help but inquire. Turning to Isabella, he asked, "Do you have any idea what happened?"

Isabella, her poise unwavering, regarded Kreacher with a discerning gaze before turning her attention to Marcus. "It appears to be, once again, the Count's peculiar effect," she remarked, her tone dripping with her peculiar accent and aristocratic grace that sometimes resurfaced when she spoke.

"After the incident with the specter, the Count summoned Kreacher to the study. They conversed for nearly half an hour, and upon his departure, Kreacher had undergone a remarkable transformation. From the least admirable house-elf, he emerged as the most enthusiastic, competent, and loyal servant to our 'most best master,' as he put it."

The house-elf nodded respectfully and resumed his diligent work as Isabella and Marcus continued along the winding corridors. Eventually, they reached the grandiose oak door leading to the Count's office. Isabella gave a gentle knock, and a deep voice from within welcomed them in. As they ventured into the office, Marcus caught sight of the Count standing by a large easel positioned near the window. Bathed in sunlight, the Count's commanding figure was silhouetted against the luminous backdrop as he deftly applied brushstrokes to a canvas, lost in the creative fervor of his work.

Isabella cleared her throat softly, announcing their presence, and the Count turned with a gracious smile, his eyes alight with an otherworldly intensity. "Ah, Marcus, Isabella, please, come closer," he beckoned, his voice a melodious blend of warmth and authority. "I trust your journey was without incident?"

Marcus couldn't resist stealing a glance at the painting. It was one of the Count's peculiar habits that never failed to intrigue him. For as long as he'd known the Count, there had always been ten 'muggle'—as in not animated—paintings in his office, each shrouded beneath an opaque veil when he painted them, shielding them from prying eyes. The Count had a ritualistic practice of burning these paintings whenever he relocated, only to painstakingly recreate them upon settling into a new abode.

Once, Marcus had mustered the courage to inquire about the mysterious paintings. The Count's enigmatic response had sent shivers down his spine. He had simply stated that they were depictions of his enemies, portraits he meticulously painted over and over to etch their faces into his memory. Despite the Count's secrecy, Marcus had managed to catch glimpses of two of the paintings, albeit by chance. Once, during their time in India, and the other during their sojourn in Morocco. In India, beneath the freshly applied strokes of paint, Marcus had caught sight of the ethereal visage of a beautiful young blonde with piercing blue eyes. In Morocco, Marcus had also stumbled upon the Count mid-process, revealing another of the hidden portraits. This time, it was the serene countenance of Albus Dumbledore that met his gaze, sending a chill down his spine at the thought of the formidable wizard being counted among the Count's adversaries. He did not know if he should fear for the Count—or for Albus Dumbledore.

This time, the portrait depicted a man with a gaunt face, his features sharp and angular. His eyes were small and watery, set deeply within their sockets, giving him a perpetually wary expression. Thin lips were drawn tight in a grimace, revealing crooked teeth stained with age. His nose, slightly bulbous at the tip, seemed to twitch with nervous energy even in the stillness of the painting. Overall, his countenance exuded an air of slyness and apprehension, as if he were constantly on edge, ready to dart away at the slightest sign of danger.

"The visage of a traitor," commented the Count, his voice carrying a weight of disdain as he followed Marcus's gaze to the portrait. Shaking his head slightly, Marcus suppressed the urge to offer a response, to say that he was not looking. It was obvious that if Marcus ever seemed to "catch" the Count in the act of painting, it was only because the Count allowed it. The Count rose from his seat and gracefully covered the almost-finished canvas with a veil. Turning his attention back to Marcus, the Count extended a graceful hand towards a nearby chair, inviting him to take a seat. Meanwhile, Isabella had left the office.

As Marcus settled into the chair, his gaze was inexorably drawn to the strange orb resting ominously upon the Count's desk. The orb rotated on its axis, surrounded by concentric rings that spun in hypnotic patterns, casting shifting shadows across the room. Crafted from unfamiliar metals with an otherworldly sheen, its surface seemed to ripple with arcane energy, pulsating strangely. The surface of the orb was adorned with a myriad of intricate runes, some of which Marcus recognized from the Count's tutelage. Yet, there were others that remained inscrutable. As Marcus studied the orb closer, he noticed a faint, ghostly figure trapped within its confines. The specter writhed and contorted within the surface, emitting a piercing screech that reverberated throughout the room with an unsettling intensity.

"Is it…," he began.

The Count nodded solemnly. "Indeed, this is the specter that inhabited the locket. Or, more accurately, it was a piece of his soul. A fragment of the soul belonging to the one called Tom Riddle, known to the world as the Dark Lord Voldemort."

Marcus shuddered involuntarily—not at the mention of the dark mage's name, but at the carnivorous smirk that flickered across the Count's features. It was downright terrifying. "A piece of soul that is now in my possession," the Count continued, his voice tinged with a dangerous edge. "And it's a very bad idea to leave pieces of your soul lying around. Who knows what a competent necromancer might do if he stumbled across them..."

Marcus's eyes lit up with realization. "A Horcrux!" he exclaimed, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place in his mind. The Count had enlightened him about the obscure concept a few years ago, just after they had retrieved the ring now adorning the Count's finger from the Gaunts' shack.

Beginning of September 2003
Hogwarts Express, United Kingdom.

Daphne Greengrass stepped onto the Hogwarts Express with eager anticipation, though her excitement wasn't solely for the start of the new school year. Nearly two months had passed since she last laid eyes on her boyfriend, and the prospect of finally being reunited with him after weeks of longing filled her with anticipation. Yet, she knew she would have to exercise patience for a few more minutes, as she could not just go to him and kiss him. There were myriad reasons for that, foremost among them being the strictures of a marriage contract binding her to a man that certainly wasn't her boyfriend—which explained why her soon-to-be year-long relationship with him was clandestine.

With Astoria by her side, Daphne made her way to the compartment that her friend Tracey had reserved. After removing the shrinking charm from her trunk, she carefully placed it inside before settling into a seat next to Tracey and started talking to her. It was the least she could do for her friend; after all, they hadn't seen each other in quite some time. A conversation to catch up and inquire about Tracey's vacation seemed like the perfect way to reconnect.

Nevertheless, as soon as she noticed the carriage clock nearing ten, she politely excused herself from her friends, using the pretext of a visit to the restroom. She made her way to the back of the train where she knew she would find him, away from prying eyes and curious whispers.

In the distance, she spotted him, standing alone amidst the quiet of the deserted train car. His muscular physique, honed by years of Quidditch, was a familiar sight that warmed her heart. With his tousled black hair and vivid green eyes, he looked every bit as captivating as she remembered. And when his smile met hers, she felt a rush of exhilaration.

Stepping closer, her anticipation growing with each stride, she finally reached him. Without hesitation, she leaned in and kissed Harry Potter.