A Bitter Road To Hell

Prologue I: Ice

He could never have imagined a cold so bitter.

He breathed slowly through the fur trim protecting his face, his boots squeaking on the powdered snow. In the clear moonlight his path sparkled white, leading towards the stunted and shadowy trees of the forest. He paused, looking back at the dark building far above him, its windows twinkling faintly in the frosty night.

Durmstrang.

How long had it been? Almost four months. Not a long time, when it came down to it, but they had been the hardest months of his life. It wasn't so much the bone-freezing cold, made worse by the Headmaster's traditional refusal to light fires for such a triviality as comfort – though that was bad enough. It wasn't even the exhausting and difficult training he had been undergoing; after seven years as one of Hogwarts' top students he could cope with that. It was more that he'd had to face these challenges alone, in a country where his name meant nothing. Worse still, after being feared at Hogwarts for his command of forbidden magic, here some of the third-year students had known more of that than him.

Well, that was why he was here, wasn't it?
He trudged on.

His intelligence and precise wand-work hadn't let him down. Within weeks he had won the respect of his distinguished tutor and been allowed to assist with some of the younger students. It was an honour about which he was ambivalent – teaching was hardly a worthy occupation for one of his breeding – but it did bring him into closer contact with the sons and daughters of the Eastern European wizarding élite.

That was the other reason he was here.

Which made staying for Christmas feel a little... pointless, though with most of the students absent he was able to fit in more lessons with Professor Dolohov. He grimaced; it wasn't turning out to be much of a holiday for him. Suddenly he wished he were spending it at home round a roaring fire, a goblet of warm mead in his hand and the old crowd hanging attentively on his every word. He shrugged. Most of them had gone to push quills in Ministry offices and family businesses. What would they understand of the cold and the Dark?

A branch snapped behind him. He spun round, reaching for his wand.

Nothing to see but trees, snow and rocks.

He breathed out and turned back to the path. Walking through the drifted snow was more tiring than he'd expected. He felt as if he'd been out for hours.

The path left the shelter of the forest, reaching a deserted slipway leading down to the river – an expanse of jagged, frozen ice that stretched away in both directions. He shivered, suddenly aware of an icy breath of wind on his right cheek. Turning away from it, he picked his way wearily along the riverbank.

That was one of the first things they had told him, back when the snow had started to fall. A wind that at home would threaten nothing more than an exhilarating broomstick ride was deadly here – even the gentlest breeze could freeze his face in an instant with the temperature this low. Most Durmstrang students had learned warming charms almost before leaving the cradle, and these too they had taught him, but he was in no mood for warmth now. Nor for company.

No one else would be out tonight. No one would come looking for him if he didn't return.
A few weeks ago the risk might have excited him. Now he found he didn't really care.

He stumbled. Was that a shadow moving in the forest? Only the trees, swaying in the breeze.

The river was silent beside him; there was something compelling in the harsh clarity of the scene. He had watched it freeze over the weeks, ever larger sheets of ice flowing downriver until they had run up against each other in creaking piles, and eventually even that sound had stopped. Like something inside, slowly freezing to silence.

He shook himself mentally. Sentimental rubbish! What had come over him in this place? Perhaps the short days were getting to him. He'd heard of that effect, and scoffed at the thought. He had always walked half in the shadows: how could he be brought low by the dark? And yet... there was something – definitive – about the act of turning from the light, something that was missing in the unrelenting gloom. Without it, he was slowly losing his clear sense of who he was. It wasn't exactly confidence he had lost – he knew why he was here and what he was aiming for. But as for what he wanted? He wasn't sure he wanted anything anymore...

Memories of a dark-haired woman flashed across his mind, the potent smell of Forbidden Forest soil, the dappled early morning sunlight as he had reached out sleepily to pull her close – and found her gone. He pushed the images away. They seemed colourless now, as if something was eating away at whatever warmth and life was left in him.

Was it the dark or the Dark? Between them, Dementors would never have been necessary had Azkaban been sited here. During the long winter nights the atmosphere of the place was enough to make anyone weep, were it not too cold for tears.

Something crunched softly in the snow.

He knew he should start back, but he felt drained, drowsy... surely it wouldn't hurt to rest a while first.

Heedless of the biting cold, he sat against a rock, looking out over the frozen river. Some of the students had told him about the parties they held there every year at break-up, waiting for the thunderous crack of returning Spring; they were probably already laying bets on the date. For himself, he wasn't sure whether he looked forward to the awakening of the river with hope or despair.

The moonshadows shifted slowly across the ice.

He would have died there if she hadn't come for him.

~ * * * ~

A shout. A flash of red light.
A tall figure.
Tailored cloak. White fur.
Bending down. Shaking his arm.

A dull protest: "Go 'way."

She slapped him. He blinked.

"Get up! Now!"

Tired. Comfortable. Leave me be.
Close eyes. Shut her out.

She took a step back, frowning, then reached for her wand.

"Imperio!"

...aah...bliss...
...happiness...weightlessness... floating...

- Get up! The voice in his head demanded compliance.
He got up, swaying slightly.

She peered at his face, taking in the wisps of pale hair and the white, cold skin. Again, she reached beneath her cloak, this time bringing out a flask embossed with entwined snakes.

"Calere," she muttered, tapping it with her wand.

It glowed orange, then faded back to cold moonlit silver. She removed the stopper and held out the flask.

- Drink!
He lifted it to his lips. Spluttered. Drank. She took back the flask, replaced the stopper, and hung it on her belt.

...Warmth...in throat and heart and stomach and lungs...spreading to arms and legs and fingers and toes and...

She watched him for a few minutes, until she could see his breathing deepen.

"Fool!" She shook her head, speaking half to herself.

- Now come with me.
He stumbled after her as she led the way from the riverbank.

They were halfway back to the school before he realised what was happening, as a sudden faint alarm in the back of his mind.

The Imperius curse?

He knew how to deal with that, knew it so well... if only he could remember...

...but this is beautiful...just walking...no effort...no pain...no problem...no decisions...

The first step was not to believe it. If you really believed someone else was in control, you were lost before you started.

...don't want control...don't want to stop floating...blissful...

Secondly, you had to clearly focus on your own interests, reaching down into your gut and your heart. What do I need?
Not ‘what do I feel?' The curse robs you of that source of knowledge.

- Keep walking! Her voice.

Hers?? Who is ‘she'? Slight accent. Not from here. Not from home. No voice I know.
...doesn't matter...just follow her...just do as she says...everything is fine...
Do I want to keep walking?

His steps faltered. Resisting the Imperius curse took real strength of mind, his teachers had said. He had never found it too much of a problem.

She turned towards him.
- Come on! Not far now!

Best to go back. So do as she asks – not because she wants it, but because I want it. Hold on to that. Don't get drawn in.

...yes...just follow...floating...do as she says...
NO – keep putting one foot in front of the other, but DON'T ‘just follow.'

Third, you could reach up to meet the other, feel out the parameters of the curse, probe the weaknesses and the strengths of the mind holding yours. It was a good way to get to know your enemy. Most victims were so panicked by the strange weightless feeling and the alien voice within that such a course of action never occurred to them, and most wizards had no idea what they might be giving away when they used the curse. But then most wizards hadn't put in the hours of practice that he had.

This mind, now – her mind – was hard and clear, a cool silver mirror surrounding his own. Interesting. Most people – or at least the friends and teachers he had practised this with – had a fuzzier hold than that, as if not sure quite how deep to take the control. This woman had a precision that intrigued him, alarmed him even, in the small part of his mind that could still feel alarm. Could he throw her off?

That wasn't a question to be left unanswered. Dropping his attention from the feel of her mind to the crunch of his steps on the snow, he blanked her out...

...but his feet were still moving: left foot forward, right foot, left...

- Keep going!

She is not in control. I will do as I choose.
...no need to fret...feels good to follow her...

He cut off that treacherous inner voice and concentrated on the small part of his mind still under his control.

He focused on the cold air moving in and out of his lungs
the feel of his legs moving
his joints
his muscles
his body
his mind aware of his body
his mind in control of his body –

- Keep moving!

NO!

He stopped still.

By the Morrighan, it was cold! He drew his fur cape around him, suddenly overcome with fatigue. How could that have taken so much effort?

She looked at him in surprise for a moment, then shrugged and said mildly, "We're almost there, you know. You'd have been more comfortable if you'd waited until we were inside."

She was right on both counts; the school loomed over them, and he was freezing, every one of his limbs feeling almost too heavy to lift. He felt vaguely deflated as they walked up to the castle. But what did I expect? Astonished admiration at my heroic bid for freedom? He smiled to himself wryly, then with satisfaction as another thought struck him: few, if any, of his fellow Hogwarts students would have been able to do it. And that, Saint Dippet, is why you shouldn't be so damned squeamish about teaching Imperius!

They reached the thick outer walls in silence. Murmuring an incantation as she ran her gloves over the heavy wooden gates, she disarmed their protective charms and passed through the arching stone passage. He followed her across the small courtyard and into the school building, brushing the snow from his boots. In the staff cloakroom a wardrobe sprang open as she flicked her slender wand. She threw her heavy fur mittens inside before peeling off her silken inner gloves. Then she turned back to him, throwing back her hood.

Neat coils of blonde hair framed her elegantly chiselled profile.

He stared at her numbly.

Her piercing blue eyes searched his face as she put a cool hand to his cheek.
"A hot chocolate and a night's rest and you'll be fine, Lucius," she said.

He jerked away. "How do you know my name?"

She laughed. Tinkling silver bells. "Oh, you'd be surprised at how much we know about you."

And she hung up her cloak, stowed her boots, and swept from the room.

~ * * * ~

He was woken, as usual, by the mournful clanging of the school's largest bell. As usual, he forced himself out of bed and over to the wardrobe before the biting cold could register.

It was only then that he realised something was different.

What was it? He pulled on his underrobe and looked around. No change outside – it was still hours before sunrise. And his room was as normal, save for yesterday's robes lying untidily on a chair. He frowned. With a wave of his wand the offending garments shook themselves out and sped back to the wardrobe.

He rubbed his eyes and stretched, relishing the tone of his muscles and the barely perceptible tingle of the power carried by his undiluted wizard blood. He suddenly realised that for the first time in weeks he felt hungry. More than that – for the first time in weeks he was actually looking forward to the day.

He ran a comb through his hair and thought back to the previous day, grimacing. How could nearly freezing to death while blundering about in the woods like some idiot Hufflepuff – not to mention being marched back to the castle by a haughty ice queen – possibly make him feel better than he had done in weeks?

"Attractive, was she?" The mirror's tone had a mocking edge.

He glared at it. Sometimes he wished he had a normal mirror, one that kept its glassy attention on his appearance instead of trying to read his mind. But this one had belonged to his mother, and he was reluctant to supplant it. As a young child he had fancied that one day her image might magically appear in it, but he'd only ever seen himself reflected there.

He picked out a dark green robe, finely woven with insulating charms. He'd had quite enough of the cold the day before.

The mirror's question echoed at the back of his mind. So, what about her, then?
No, he decided. Even if she was the first female remotely close to him in age that he had seen for months (students excepted, Dolohov having been very firm about that), her cool disdain wasn't exactly alluring. Intriguing, though. He was definitely intrigued.

He let the mirror give him a final inspection before he left for breakfast.

"You really should get that hair cut, dear," it remarked.

"It's all right for you – you don't feel the cold," he shot back, wistfully thinking of the Anti-Nag Charm he'd seen on his last foray into Knockturn Alley; there were times when even a human servant might have been less intrusive. And at least a human servant could have read enough of The Wandering Broomstick Guide to Northern Europe to know that virtually everyone here kept their hair long, especially during the winter months when every extra bit of insulation was needed. His own was still at that awkward, not-quite-shoulder-length stage, but already he was feeling the benefits. He could have charmed it to grow faster, but he liked to watch the gradual change. Inch by inch, he was leaving his Hogwarts days behind, and every inch marked the growth in his knowledge and power.

He gazed at his reflection, satisfied that he had charmed the stray locks into some semblance of order. Only four months, and already he looked and felt quite different.

Locking and warding the door behind him, he cast a careful detector charm down the corridor. Magic in the corridors wasn't exactly allowed here but there wasn't an army of prefects to stop it, either. Whereas Hogwarts students were taught to regard rules as protective walls, at Durmstrang they were obstacles to be evaded – as long as the teachers' authority was not directly challenged. Nor was there an imposed house ‘solidarity'; each student was alone until he had forged his own alliances. The system offered a freedom Lucius could appreciate, though in the first few weeks of establishing himself he had been disturbed to realise how much he had relied on the rules before.

That morning the way was clear and he made his way downstairs, carefully giving no thought to the woman in white.

~ * * * ~

Professor Dolohov's quarters were located in a dungeon two staircases down from the Entrance Hall. The lack of windows made little difference at this time of year. It was only half an hour since breakfast, so sunrise was still two hours away – not that the watery daylight was worth waiting for. It was, however, a few degrees warmer below the ground, being insulated by the earth and sheltered from the wind. Lucius found that amusing, after seven years of listening to non-Slytherins pointedly claiming that they would hate to have to live in a slimy dungeon. He often wondered how they would react if forced to choose between light and warmth. Life was so much less complicated when you were willing to face the cold or be embraced by the dark.

He knocked on the Professor's plain iron door, and waited, wondering what today's lesson would be. He was a few minutes early; it was not prudent to risk being late. Dolohov, the school's Medimagic teacher, was a world-renowned expert on Pain.

The tolling of the hourly bell was magically amplified through the corridor, and the door swung open. Lucius entered, and stopped short.

A group of six people awaited him.

Four months at Durmstrang had taught him caution. The hard way. He scanned the room.

They were seated around a low table. Facing him was the young woman of the day before, again wearing white. He avoided her eyes, shaking off a sudden wave of embarrassment. Beside her was Anton Levski, the red-faced Potions Professor, and at the end of the table sat a woman he didn't know. She stared straight ahead, her face hidden by a dull mane of dark hair, seemingly indifferent to his entrance. Two men sat with their backs to him – the younger one was a stranger, but the tall figure on his left was only too familiar. Igor Karkaroff, the Wards Professor, had taken a perverse delight in using his well-honed skills to test the new arrival's ward-setting abilities. Finally, exhausted after too many nights of being woken by his door banging open, Lucius had resorted to the Malfoy blood wards his father had taught him. He wasn't sure what effect they would have on the next occupant of the room, but he hadn't had any trouble from Karkaroff since.

Seated opposite the mysterious brunette was Professor Dolohov. On the table several tea glasses sat next to a silver samovar, from which a wisp of steam was rising.

Dolohov was beckoning him in. "Welcome, Lucius. Do come and have some tea."

As he sat down, Karkaroff leaned over and shook his hand. "Congratulations, Mr. Malfoy," he said in his usual unctuous tone.

Lucius stared. "Congratulations for what, exactly?" he asked warily.

"For surviving, mostly," Dolohov replied. He was smiling. It was slightly disconcerting.

Lucius' discomfort returned. "For that, I think, you have to have to congratulate Miss-" He gestured to the blonde woman, who was staring at the table.

Dolohov laughed. "What, didn't you introduce yourself yesterday, Narcissa?" he asked her. Her fingers tightened around her glass. "Lucius," he continued, "May I present Narcissa Defevrier? Narcissa, this is Lucius Malfoy. Though I believe you two have already made your acquaintance."

Uncomfortable, Lucius looked over at the woman. She met his eyes briefly before glaring at Dolohov, then turned her attention to a studious inspection of her tea. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Karkaroff smiling maliciously.

She seemed to be as ill at ease as he was, but he couldn't fathom why. He was no stranger to mindgames, but he had no idea what was going on here.

"While we're making introductions," Dolohov continued, "This is Mary and Michael Mulciber. Anton and Igor you know, of course."

Across the table, Levski beamed at him.

"Tea, Lucius?"
He accepted the glass gratefully.

The dark-haired woman – Mary – was watching him with dead eyes that seemed to look straight through him. He suddenly realised that she was no older than he was. The man was scowling.

"Are you going to get on and explain it to him?" The accent was harsh and... Irish?

"I was just coming to that, Michael," said Dolohov pleasantly. "Lucius, you know what a Pogrebin is, don't you?"

"Of course I know what a Pogrebin is!" The Russian despair-inducing demons were even on the Hogwarts syllabus.

Comprehension dawned as he recalled the noises in the snow. How could he have been so stupid?

"So that's why I was feeling…"

"…not quite your usual cheerful self," Levski finished dryly. "But that's only part of it." He drew out a vial of pale blue liquid. "I don't suppose you're familiar with Desperserum?"

"I don't think I know that one."

"Oh, no reason why you should." Levski smiled in a proprietary fashion. "It has much the same effect as a Pogrebin, as it happens, but works much more slowly." He was watching Lucius closely. Lucius was careful to keep his face calm, but inwardly he was seething.

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" he asked coldly.

"It's a test, my dear Lucius," Karkaroff interjected. "And you passed with flying colours, if I may say so."

"I almost died!"

"Oh, everyone ‘almost dies' in the end," said Dolohov easily, "but I don't think we've lost anyone yet. The factor of crucial importance is how long it takes you to get to that state."

"And how long did it take him?" That was Michael.

"We'd just got to three months. Hence the need for the Pogrebin."

The Irishman whistled. "Three months?" He was now regarding Lucius with a look that bordered on respect.

"You were feeding me that potion for three months?!" There was a cold fury in his voice as he leapt to his feet, wand pointed straight at Dolohov. "You'd better have a damned good explanation for this!"

Antonin Dolohov did not even flinch. "Don't be foolish, Lucius," he said calmly. "I really would advise you to learn to control your temper. It will lead you into trouble one of these days."

Their eyes locked, stormy grey on cold blue.

"You did come here, I believe, to further your education?" the Professor continued. "I do seem to recall you telling me that you wanted to learn some of the arts that the esteemed Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry deems inappropriate for its delicate students. I also seem to remember you assuring me that you, Lucius Malfoy, were not as fragile as your peers. That you were perfectly capable of succeeding here. Are you telling me you've changed your mind?"

Lucius sat down, gritting his teeth. "I take your point, Professor. But I would also appreciate an explanation."

"And you will get one, if you'll kindly refrain from melodramatic interruptions."

He sipped his tea.

"First of all, I'd like to assure you that I concur completely with Igor's view of your performance: you did admirably. It never feels like that at the time, I know, but remember: by the time Narcissa caught up with you'd had three months of Desperserum..."

"Not to mention a touch of hypothermia," Narcissa broke in waspishly.

Dolohov shot her a warning look, then turned back to Lucius. "Quite. So you see, you were in no state to fight off the Pogrebin; you were in no state even to get back to the castle without help. That was the entire point of the exercise. That's why we sent Narcissa after you."

"And even then you managed to throw off her Imperius curse." Levski was grinning.

"Do you have to rub that in?" Narcissa spat, her voice tight with fury.

Mary was staring at Lucius. "Did you really?" she asked eagerly. So there was a spark of life in her after all.

Lucius looked at the three of them in turn, then shrugged.

"So what, exactly, did you hope to achieve by getting me to a state in which you thought I was completely defenceless?"

Dolohov beamed at him as if he'd just answered, not asked, the question.

"Two things." He held up a finger. "First, we now have confidence that you'll be able to handle the more – advanced – exercises." Lucius pushed the icy touch of those words to the back of his mind.

He held up another finger. "And secondly, you now know what can bring you to that state. You know which thoughts made you despair, so from now on you'll have a much better idea of what you have to sacrifice to reach your goals. Just as importantly, you know what it was that kept you going. I'd advise you to think long and hard about that."

~ * * * ~

He did so, once the meeting was over. Standing on the castle walls as the weak sun crawled into the southern sky, he traced his moods over the previous three months.

Identifying what had kept him going was easy: his utter confidence in his abilities, his family pride, his determination not to let mere legality obstruct his thirst for knowledge. No surprises there. As for what had held him back – well, there were those memories of her... but that was pure cliché. Every Slytherin knew that gaining and wielding power meant putting yourself before caring too much for others; he certainly didn't need to spend three months being dripfed poison in a frozen castle to work that one out.

However, there was something else that had eaten away at him. He had cast himself into a world in which he was unknown, in which his name meant nothing and gave him no foothold. For Lucius Malfoy, to be treated as just one among many was disorientating, to say the least.

Well, he would just have to make sure that he never felt insignificant again.