The next month passed in a blur of agony and exhaustion. Every day bled into the next—an endless cycle of lessons, fruitless study, and merciless training. She forced herself through the dense, lifeless pages of the books Severus assigned, clinging to the hope that knowledge might unlock what instinct refused to. She reached for her magic, again and again, only to be met with failure. And each failure had consequences.
The Dark Lord'sCruciotore through her without hesitation. The pain was absolute, a raw, searing force that left her crumpled and shaking on the cold stone floor. She stopped screaming after the first few times; it didn't change anything. Eventually, she couldn't even stand when it was over–each one more ruthless than the last as the Dark Lord's exasperation grew. Someone always carried her back to her room—sometimes Severus, sometimes a nameless Death Eater. It didn't matter. The cycle would reset the next week, her body barely mended by the potions forced down her throat.
It wore her down in ways she hadn't known were possible. Sleep became another form of torment—visions of death, destruction, and power she could almost taste. But the worst part wasn't the was the temptation. In those dreams, it felt good—intoxicating, even—to hold someone's fate in her hands, to feel the surge of control. But then, the Dark Lord would appear—seemingly from nowhere—his face twisted into an icy sneer."Such a disappointment,"he hissed, his serpent-like voice laced with contempt. Then he drew back his wand, the green light of Avada Kedavra rushing toward her. Helpless—until she woke with a gasp, drenched in sweat, struggling for air.
And in the waking hours, she drifted—hollow, disconnected, existing but not living. Even the simplest tasks were impossible; her hands shook so violently she could barely grip her wand. She noticed. Draco noticed.
His visits became routine, arriving in the aftermath of the Dark Lord's gatherings as if he already knew what state she'd be in. He never asked. Never forced her to speak. He just sat beside her, letting the silence settle between them. Sometimes they drank. Sometimes they read. Sometimes they did nothing at all. But they never spoke of the horrors. It was an unspoken agreement—pain processed in silence.
Beyond Draco and Severus, there was nothing. No one sought her out. No one asked for her help. It was as if she had ceased to exist.
And in those empty hours, her thoughts drifted to her mother. She had done this—had mastered the power that now felt impossibly out of reach. But how? There were no answers. Severus dismissed her theories outright, refusing to entertain the idea that there was more, snapping at her to stop pestering him. Her own father avoided her as if she had spattergroit.
Then, one evening, as she rifled through her bedside drawer in search of a piece of parchment, her fingers brushed against something familiar. The worn leather spine sent a jolt through her, a whisper of something long buried beneath the haze of pain and exhaustion. A .
For a moment, she just stared, her breath caught in her throat. She had hidden it away, shoved it deep into the shadows of her mind, pretending it wasn't an option. But now, the weight of it in her hands made her chest tighten with something sharp and undeniable. Desperation. Longing. A need so consuming it made her dizzy.
She had tried everything. Pleaded with Severus. Searched through the Malfoy library until her eyes ached. Endured agony under the Dark Lord's hand, waiting for some revelation that never came. And yet, the answers remained out of reach. No one could help her. No onewouldhelp her.
But her mother could.
Necromancy wasn't just dark magic—it was forbidden, untouchable, a line even the most ruthless feared to cross. But what other choice did she have? Her fingers trembled as she turned the pages, brittle and yellowed with age. Inferi, ancient symbols etched in blood, incantations that sent ice crawling down her spine. She forced herself to keep reading, even when the illustrations made bile rise in her throat.
And then—she found it.
The page was deceptively simple, its inked instructions stark against the madness surrounding it. She read it once. Then again. And again. This wasn't something that she could simply undo if things went wrong. Once she started, there would be no stopping.
Her grip tightened around her wand. Slowly, she rose, turning toward the door. With a single flick, the lock clicked into place. Another wave of her wand sealed the room in silence. If anyone heard, if anyoneinterfered—
No. That couldn't happen.
The loveseat scraped against the floor as she shoved it aside, clearing space. The wood was cool beneath her palm as she knelt, heart pounding so violently she thought it might shake the very air around her. She moved with precision, tracing the runes into the floor, carving each line with absolute care. Conjured candles drifted into place at her silent command, their flames flickering to life one by one, sending elongated shadows crawling up the walls as she extinguished every other source of light.
The room shrank around her, swallowed by the dim glow of fire and inked darkness.
She stepped back, scanning the text once more, her eyes darting over every line, every symbol, ensuring each detail was correct. Yet, as she prepared to begin, doubt slithered into her mind, cold and insidious.
This wasn't the kind of necromancy whispered about in horror stories, not the grotesque perversions lurking in the rest of the book—but it was still dangerous. If her intent wavered, even for a moment, she could summon something else. Somethingwrong. Dark entities waited in the spaces between, craving a crack in the veil, eager to take hold.
A shiver ran down her spine.
The Dark Lord's grip on her tightened with every passing day, coiling around her like a serpent, squeezing until she could barely breathe. Every day, she felt herself breaking apart, unraveling like a tapestry worn too thin. She was losing pieces of herself, slipping further into something hollow, something she no longer recognized. She clung to what remained, but realistically, how much longer could she hold on?
Her body moved before her mind could protest further.
Lowering herself into the center of the circle, she placed the book before her, the pages illuminated by flickering candlelight. She inhaled deeply, steadying herself, before lifting her wand.
The blade of its tip dragged across her palm. A sharp sting. Then warmth. Blood welled up, slipping between her fingers, and trickling down her forearm before dripping onto the carvings below.
She pressed her hand to the runes, smearing her blood into the grooves, and began to speak.
The moment the words left her lips, the air shifted.
A hush fell over the room—an unnatural silence that pressed against her ears. The candlelight dimmed, flickering wildly as if something unseen had stirred. Then, the darkness thickened, swallowing every shadow, stretching outward until even the glow of the flames felt distant and weak.
The air turned frigid, her breath curling in the freezing space between her lips. Her voice wavered on the last syllable.
A sudden gust of wind ripped through the room, extinguishing the candles in an instant.
Utter blackness.
Her breath hitched, the sound deafening in the suffocating quiet. The cold burrowed into her bones, deeper than anything she had ever felt as if something unseen hadnoticedher.
Had she done something wrong?
Her pulse thundered in her ears as she strained to listen, tofeelanything. The book did not instruct what came next. She was alone in the dark, heartbeat hammering against her ribs, unable to see, unable to move.
And all she could do was wait.
Slowly, the candles sputtered back to life, their flames violent and unsteady. The fire in the hearth roared, burning hotter, brighter—yet the air remained frigid, a hollow, deathly kind of cold that seeped into her bones.
Amoria's eyelids fluttered open, dread coiling in her chest. She forced herself to look.
The room was still shrouded in darkness, the flickering firelight barely cutting through the void. And in front of the hearth, unmoving, stood her mother.
A shuddering breath caught in Amoria's throat. She didn't turn. Didn't move. Just stood there, facing the flames as if she hadn't just been pulled from the depths of the beyond.
Amoria clenched her shaking hands, her nails biting into her palms. She had been warned—stay inside the circle,neverbreak the flow of blood, or risk losing control. But now, standing on the edge of consciousness, her head swam, the world tipping dangerously around her. Only then did she realize how weak she felt. The warmth of her blood still seeped from her palm, pooling along the carved runes. How much had she lost already?
She swallowed hard, forcing herself to focus.
Her mother looked different. Stronger. No longer the decayed, skeletal thing she had encountered before. But she was stillwrong. Amoria could see it in the way her clothes hung from her frame, how her hair thinned, brittle and ghostly in the dim light.
This is temporary.
She was running out of time.
Between her lack of experience and her dwindling strength, she had only minutes—seconds, maybe—to get what she needed. The confidence she had started with crumbled, fear sinking its claws into her chest.
One chance.
Her throat was dry, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Mum."
No reaction.
Panic tightened around her ribs, but she pushed through it. "Mum, please. I need to know how you did it—how you controlled it." The words tumbled out, desperate, her pulse pounding in her ears. "I've searched everywhere. There'snothing onUmbra Vitaein the entire library. I tried doing what you said—tried learning on my own—but I failedeverytime. There has to be ."
Silence.
Her mother's body remained still, her gaze locked on the fire as if she hadn't heard a word.
Amoria's breath grew shallow, too quick, too uneven. The room blurred, the edges of her vision darkening. The air pressed in around her, suffocating, tilting—no, no, stay awake. A wave of nausea rose sharp and sudden, her stomach twisting violently.
She dug her nails into her uninjured palm, pain jolting through her nerves, grounding her.
Shehadto hold on.
Then—finally—her mother moved.
A slow, deliberate tilt of the head, just enough for Amoria to see her face. Her eyes—once a striking blue—were dull now, clouded, like glass fogged over by time.
"The only text that remains is in Kyiv," her mother's voice drifted through the air, not spoken butcarried, like a whisper threading through the wind. It was distant, yet unmistakably clear. "I had only just discovered its existence before my passing. It lies in a library hidden beneath the Andriyivskyy Descent. Our ancestors concealed it, fearing its destruction when the purging began."
Kyiv.
The word slammed into Amoria, cold and sharp. Her pulse pounded in her ears, louder than the crackling fire, louder than the roaring panic clawing at her ribs. This was it. A real answer. A direction.
"It has been charmed to sense our bloodline and our bloodline only," her mother continued, her voice weaving through the silence, calm yet weighted with something Amoria couldn't name. "It will appear when summoned, but you must know how to call it. Connect with your magic, my love, and theUmbra Vitaewill obey."
A shudder tore through her, but not from —this was what she had been searching for, what she had needed. Her mother's words were a beacon, a flicker of light in the endless dark she had been drowning in.
Her mother's voice softened, the shadows around her shifting, parting for just a moment. "It was too late for me." A pause, heavy, aching. "Act before it's too late to save yourself."
The cold bit deeper into Amoria's skin, but she barely felt it. Those words struck something raw inside her, something that had been festering in the silence of her late.
.
The moment pressed down on her, too heavy, too vast. Her breath came in shallow, uneven gasps, the room tilting at the edges. The darkness pulsed—too close, too thick.
She could feel it tugging at her—the runes, drawing the blood from her wound, siphoning her life force, pulling her deeper into the void.
No, not yet.
She needed to understand the text, how to summon it, and how tomake it obey.
Her vision swam, black creeping at the edges. She forced herself to focus, to hold on, to fight the pull of unconsciousness threatening to take her under.
Just a little longer.
The connection to her mother, reckless and dangerous as it had been, was draining her faster than she'd anticipated. The link had opened something inside her, a gaping hole of exhaustion that threatened to swallow her whole.
With the last remnants of strength, she forced herself to speak. The words came out in a rasp, barely more than a whisper, her lips trembling as she spoke the severing incantation. The syllables felt heavy, foreign on her tongue, but they had to be said.
The moment she finished, she felt it—the magic unraveling, slipping through her fingers like water. Her body went limp, and she collapsed, the world around her blurring into nothingness. The link was severed, but at a cost, she couldn't yet measure.
The cold floor was harsh against her skin as she hit it. Struggling to push past the weakness creeping through her, she flicked her wand with trembling fingers, summoning the blood-replenishing potion she had set out to her side. The vial slammed into her palm, almost slipping through her weak grip. Her vision spun as she fumbled with the cork, her hands shaking too violently to open it. But with a frantic yank, it gave way, and she poured the thick, metallic liquid into her mouth without a second thought, ignoring the bitterness.
She lay back, her body feeling like it was floating, disconnected from itself. She could feel the potion working, the cold numbness in her limbs starting to ebb away, but it was still a battle to stay conscious.
If someone finds me...
Her heart pounded at the thought. If anyone came in now, if they saw the blood smeared across the floor, the faint glow of the runes still lingering in the air, she'd be under constant surveillance. Every movement, every breath would be scrutinized. She couldn't afford that—not when she was finally getting somewhere.
Because she had an answer now. Or at least the beginning of one.
Her mother had answered her call. The thought sent a warmth through her chest, a feeling that almost felt real—like a comforting embrace. Maybe she hadn't been completely alone. Maybe her mother had been watching, guiding her from the shadows, urging her forward through the darkness.
But that warmth quickly faded, replaced by the cold weight of reality.
That hadn't been her mother—not entirely.
Necromancy didn't work that way. What she had summoned wasn't her mother's spirit. It was an echo. A fragment. A mere shadow of the woman who had once held her, loved her. The true woman—the one she had lost—was gone.
And she wouldn't summon her again.
Her breath steadied as the potion worked its way through her system, warmth creeping back into her limbs. The coldness in her body receded, and the numb detachment faded. She could feel her fingers again, the tremor still there, but manageable. Slowly, painfully, she pushed herself upright.
She reached for another vial of the potion, and after drinking it, she stood fully, her legs wobbling slightly beneath her. The room felt quieter now, the silence pressing in around her. She flicked her wand, clearing the blood from the floor, erasing every trace of the ritual. The runes dissolved into nothingness, the candles flickered out, and the room settled back into its former stillness. Untouched. As if nothing had ever happened at all.
Her hands were still unsteady as she grabbed her bag—the one her father had given her, equipped with an undetectable extension charm so she could carry whatever she might need if they had to leave in a hurry. She shoved clothes inside, along with some money, her movements sharp and hurried.
There wasn't time to waste. Kyiv was far from here, and she had no idea how to get there. Apparition was out of the question; she was already too drained for that. The Floo Network would be the most reliable way.
With her bag slung over her shoulder, she headed toward the salon. Reaching for the jar of Floo powder, she tossed a handful into the fire. The flames burst to life, green and wild, crackling with energy. But then unease settled in her chest, a reminder of the last time she had ventured outside the manor, how close she'd come to danger. She had scrubbed herself raw when she returned, but the memory of that wizard's touch still haunted her.
She shook the thought away. This was different—she was headed to the Muggle world, not some abandoned district in the middle of the war. The Muggles had no idea about any of it; they lived their lives without the darkness looming over them. It would be safe. But then, how many Muggles would be there? She had no hatred for them—not really—but they were still foreign to her. She'd only ever been around a handful, and she'd gone out of her way to avoid interacting with them. What if she had to now? What if something went wrong, like before, when she'd had to protect herself and risked exposing magic? That would bring serious consequences—not just with Severus, but with the Ministry. The anxiety gnawed at her, tightening around her chest, but there was no other option.
Just as she was about to step into the flames, a voice cut through the tension.
"Where do you think you're going?"
The voice startled her, and her hand instinctively twitched toward her wand. She whipped around to find Draco standing in the doorway, arms crossed, a smirk dancing on his lips.
She let out a sharp breath, relieved it wasn't Severus.
"None of your bloody business," she snapped, crossing her arms.
Draco tilted his head, his smirk widening. "If I recall, according to your father, it is my business. Well—really, everyone's business. Your last little excursion attracted some... unwanted attention. So now, you're to be watched closely."
Her jaw clenched. Damn her father. Too busy to even look at her, yet never too busy to control her every move.
"No one told me I couldn't leave," she shot back. "I'm not a prisoner."
Draco chuckled, shaking his head. "A prisoner? No. But a liability? Absolutely." His smirk stretched wider. "You've become quite the pain in the arse, you know."
"Good." She smirked right back, her annoyance rising. "You act as if you haven't been a pain yourself."
She turned back to the fire, intent on stepping into the flames, but Draco grabbed her arm and yanked her back.
Her frustration flared. "Draco, I swear to Merlin—"
"If you're planning on leaving, you need a chaperone from now on. Your father's orders, not mine."
Her eyes narrowed. "Do you always do as my father says?"
Draco shrugged, that infuriating smugness still in place. "No. I usually do the opposite. But he seemed especially pissed when he found out you let one of them touch you, so I pick my battles."
Her stomach twisted, bile rising in her throat at the reminder. She didn't want to think about that, didn't want to go there again. But the thought lingered, uninvited, gnawing at her.
Rolling her eyes, she snapped, "Frankly, I don't care what my father says. If he asks, I'll tell him I stunned you and left anyway."
Draco snorted. "He's heard about your dueling. He'd never believe that. And you know it."
Her fists clenched, frustration boiling over. His theatrics were wasting precious time, and every second he delayed her only made the gnawing anxiety worse. "Fine. But we're only going for one thing, and that's it."
Draco took a step closer, his smirk deepening. She hated the way he was enjoying this—hated the amused glint in his eyes. His usual brooding arrogance had shifted into something lighter, more... playful.
It unsettled her.
"So," he drawled, "where are we off to?"
"Kyiv."
The smirk vanished. "Kyiv? Why the hell would you want to go there?"
"There's something I need there. It's important. And I don't need you getting in my way."
She reached back into the jar of powder, grabbing another handful, ignoring his reaction. She just needed to go. Now.
Draco scoffed. "I thought you'd be heading somewhere a bit more... luxurious. Paris? Milan? Hell, even certain parts of the States. But Ukraine?"
"I'm not going for a day of shopping, Draco. I need to get to a library. Now, are you coming or not?"
He hesitated, just for a moment. Then, with a dramatic sigh, he sulked toward the fire, grabbing a handful of Floo powder himself.
"The Andriyivskyy Descent," she said clearly, her voice unwavering as the flames roared around her.