A Bitter Road To Hell

Prologue II: Sun and Shadow

"Ciseau."

Green flame flared from the black stone rod in Narcissa's hand. She waited for it to settle into a focused jet, then sliced into the block of ice.

It was always a delicate operation, but here the sub-arctic conditions made it unusually difficult. She was practised enough at keeping ice from melting in warm air, so much so that normally she was hardly even aware of holding her Chilling Charm. Here, though, she had to concentrate to warm the ice to a workable temperature while still keeping it frozen in shape.

It was a challenge to her skill, and after last night's debacle it was a welcome one.

"Plus étroite."

She made another cut, shielding the emerging shape from the sun's weak warmth, which she siphoned off to fuel her flame. It wasn't necessary to use the excess energy, but failure to do so would put a small but noticeable drain on her own power by the time she was done. Moreover, there was an elegant precision in avoiding the wastage – and if there was anything Narcissa prided herself on, it was elegant precision.

She wasn't sure how long it took her to finish – she always tended to lose track of time as she became absorbed in the task. The sun was a little lower in the sky; but that told her little, unaccustomed as she was to the short Northern day. She pushed a stray tendril of hair from her face and stood back to admire her craftwork.

Reaching into the pocket of her robe, she took out her wand.

"Caldere," she murmured softly, pushing away memories of using the same spell to warm her flask the night before. This time she let the orange glow radiate from her wand, to ever-so-gently warm the air that embraced the rough-hewn shape. The ice softened just enough for its edges to smooth into a glittering surface.

"Finite Incantatem." The glow ceased, and she put away her wand. The sunlight reflected from the scales of a small dragon, stubby snout raised to the air and wings outstretched as if poised for flight. She could almost fancy that it was watching her.

It could not, of course. But now that she was no longer focused on copying her carefully carved scales across the creature's body, she did feel someone's attention on her. She cast her eyes around the cliffside terrace on which she stood, then looked up towards the school's white walls and heavy outer gates.

It was the English wizard. He was leaning against the gate with studied nonchalance, a slight smile on his lips as he watched her.

He seemed to mistake her frown for an invitation to disturb her solitude, for he straightened up and ran lightly down the flight of steps towards her. That potion must have affected his perception more than he let on, she thought, irritated.

"How long were you watching me?" she asked as he approached.

He shrugged. "Since the second wing," he answered. No apology for the invasion of privacy seemed to be forthcoming, though he was not looking particularly comfortable. But after all, putting him under Imperius had hardly been the friendliest way to introduce herself.

"Is that for the party tonight?" he asked, nodding towards the dragon.

"Partly," she replied.

"It's an impressive piece of work."

"You wouldn't say that if you'd ever spent Christmas at Beauxbatons."

He smiled. "So I've heard; I have an aunt who'll talk about their ice sculptures for hours if you let her. I didn't realise that it took quite so much work to make them, though."

She frowned. "Ah, Mr Malfoy... you were under the impression that the house-elves snapped their fingers and – voilà! – they just appeared by magic?"

"I can't say I'd ever given it much thought, Mademoiselle," he said, "but would it not be simpler just to Transfigure the ice?"

"Always the same misconceptions." She rolled her eyes. "You English have no appreciation for art."

"No?" he queried, raising an eyebrow. "Though I've never really understood why an Academy of Magic places such emphasis on a Muggle activity."

She stared at him in disbelief. "Did you come down here with the intention of insulting me?"

With a flick of her wrist her wand was in her hand. He took a step backwards. Good. She turned to her dragon and cried, "Show me a Muggle who can do this! Animare draco!"

The figure quivered for a second, then leapt up into the air and dove into the valley below. She followed it with her eyes, absorbed in its swooping flight as it reached the trees and turned, sunlight sparkling from its icy wings. When she turned back to him she was calmer.

"You see," she explained, adopting a lecturing tone fit for a particularly obtuse first year, "there is more to it than merely making some piece of wood, or stone, or ice look like a dragon. The skill lies in making it move like a dragon – and that means knowing every muscle, every sinew... it means feeling how his wings balance." Caught up in her passion for her Art, she was smiling now despite herself. When she saw the curious expression in his strange grey eyes, her smile faded.

"If you know what you're doing," she continued, giving him a doubtful look, "Transfiguration can change your ice into something that has a natural pattern. To Transfigure to a flying ice creature... well, it's possible, but you'd have to visualise it so deeply that it would take far longer than doing it my way."

"I see." He turned away and leaned on the stone parapet, his white-blond hair hiding his face from view. She hadn't put him off staying, then.

She turned away to check on her creation. The miniature dragon was wheeling in circles; it must have found a thermal to climb on… unless the wings were unbalanced. Pointing her wand, she called out, "Accio!"

The creature hurtled towards them. At a few words from her it settled back on the plinth, wings fully extended.

"It's a Swedish Short-Snout, isn't it?" he asked, eyeing the pointed horns. She nodded. So he knew about dragons, then? Or maybe he was just trying to sound interested.

She reached for her flame-chisel and made an almost imperceptible cut into the icy muscle under the left wing. Then she Reanimated the dragon and scrutinised its flight until satisfied the imperfection was gone.

"May I see that?" He gestured towards the still-warm carving tool. She hesitated, and then handed it to him.

"Be careful," she warned. "It's keyed to me."

He examined the dark stone, one gloved finger tracing the curves that were shaped to fit her hand. "Like a wand, and not like a wand," he observed.

"It's a Japanese design, originally," she told him, "but they make them at Beauxbatons now."

"The Academy guarding its monopoly on the technique, as usual?"

As if those philistines at Hogwarts would care either way. "They say that using them can be risky if your French accent is anything less than perfect," she said. "I don't advise you to try it."

"Not even if my French accent is perfect?" he countered, handing it back to her.

Unlikely, she thought, as she tucked it away. Though if it were even half-way true it would mark him out from his countrymen. British wizards were notoriously insular.

"Well, even if that was the case," she replied, "I'm the only one who's used this one for the last ten years. I wouldn't want to ruin the calibration."

"You started learning this before you went to school?"

"In my first year." Why did everyone always assume she was younger?

He paused, obviously working it out.

"It sounds like a more interesting first year than ours," he said then.

"Oh? Why do you say that?"

"Well…" He gave a short laugh. "All we got was Transfiguration. And you wouldn't believe the number of things you can do with a matchstick…"

She suppressed a smile. "Not your favourite subject then?"

"It wasn't that so much." But he was looking away, clearly unwilling to pursue the topic.

A thought struck her. "Doesn't Albus Dumbledore teach Transfiguration at Hogwarts?"

He looked up sharply. "You know Dumbledore?"

"I've heard of him." She had no wish to elaborate.

"Who hasn't?" He shrugged. "What do they call him? ‘The Greatest Wizard of Modern Times.' Which is why he's sitting in Scotland teaching children to turn lemons into Muggle sweets."

"What's he like as a teacher?" she asked, curious despite herself.

"How can I put it?" He flipped a stray ice fragment with the toe of his dragonhide boot. "You never really knew where you were with him. He puts on this act of being all fair and fatherly, but he always seems to have one of his weird blue eyes on you. Unless you're one of his favourites, of course."

"I take it you weren't."

"Not due to lack of ability, I assure you. Transfiguration may be tedious, but it has its uses."

She nodded. "Well, if it's any comfort, our lessons weren't always that thrilling. You can only make a block of ice melt so many times before your brain starts melting with it."

He laughed. "You had to make ice melt? Doesn't it do that by itself?"

She wasn't sure whether to be exasperated or amused, so she settled for a straight answer. "It's all a question of how it melts, really. You need to understand exactly how the crystal structures work if you want a Preserving Charm to stick." She shrugged. "It teaches you to be precise, if nothing else."

He looked at her for a few moments, then remarked, "That would explain the feel of your Imperius, then."

She stiffened in surprise. That was not something she wished to discuss.

"You're an expert at Imperius, are you?" she said, her voice brittle.

"I wouldn't claim that. But I know more about it than most people at Hogwarts."

She snorted. "Well that would hardly be difficult, would it?"

"I won't argue with that," he replied, "but there is more to Hogwarts than the curriculum, you know." He paused, and then said abruptly, "You needn't be quite so ashamed of losing hold of me last night."

She flushed. So he just wanted to rub her nose in his supposed superiority? These foreign students were all the same: four months at Durmstrang and they thought they knew everything.

Though having said that, his first comment on the subject had been almost respectful. Or at least genuinely curious.

He showed no sign of noticing her reaction as he continued, "So where did you learn? I wasn't aware Beauxbatons was that progressive."

"No." She could imagine how the Headmistress would react to that idea. "I'm Professor Dolohov's niece."

Well, that piece of information always shut them up.

She turned to look for the ice dragon. It could not tire, but she could, and the shadows on the snow had shifted discernibly since she had started. She called it back.

There was no reason to stay out in the cold any longer – but neither of them moved to walk back to the castle.

"So, you're just here to visit your uncle, then?" he asked.

"He's not the sort of relative you can ignore." Especially, she thought, when it was his contacts that had paved the way for her imminent trip to the East. "Besides," she continued with a wry smile, "I wouldn't want to miss tonight – Durmstrang's midwinter parties are usually memorable, to say the least."

"So I've been told," he said dryly. "I look forward to seeing for myself."

"You're not convinced." Not that she could blame him, all things considered, but still… "So why are you here, if you hate the place so much?"

"You're surely not expecting me to praise its gracious hospitality, after what I heard this morning?" he retorted.

"Well," she replied wickedly, "if you will be desperate enough to apprentice yourself to Uncle Antonin..."

"I'd hardly describe myself as ‘desperate'-" She raised an eyebrow. He paused, before retreating into arrogance. "Professor Dolohov is one of the best Dark Arts teachers there is. Personally, I see no reason to settle for less than that."

"So why did you settle for Hogwarts, if the Dark Arts interest you so much?"

He stared at her. "You have to go to Hogwarts if you want any place at all in British wizarding society. It shapes the rest of your life."

"How so?" She knew the answer, of course, but wanted to see what he would say.

"British society is not exactly a meritocracy," he said. "Everything depends on who you know – which means where you went to school, what impression you made there, what House you were in, who your friends were…"

And what you learned about your enemies, was what he didn't say, but the implication was clear. That sort of mentality was not alien to Beauxbatons – or to the Defevrier family. She wondered what impression he had made at Hogwarts, but he was unlikely to reveal what she wanted to know – not, at least, in response to an obvious question.

"But now you're here," she said.

"Sometimes you have to play a longer game."

She looked at him sceptically. He said nothing further. Well, he wasn't going to pique her curiosity by being enigmatic. Though she still wondered exactly what he was hoping to learn from her uncle.

"Well," she said softly, "whatever game you're playing, it's a risky one if it requires Antonin Dolohov for a teacher."

"You say that as if you disapprove." He sounded surprised.

She knew enough to know the risks, that was all. Though they were not easy to explain, especially to someone who didn't want to listen.

"I've never been that drawn to the Dark Arts," she said languidly. "Art is more my field of interest."

"You're telling me that you're related to a Master of Dark magic, and you don't want to learn? With your talent?" She didn't need a witch's empathy to hear the disbelief in his voice.

"You flatter me, Mr Malfoy." As well he should. "But what I do with my abilities is up to me, is it not? And my uncle is not the… easiest teacher, as you possibly have cause to know." He gave a small grimace of agreement.

She went on. "But since you ask, I do indeed draw on the Dark Arts. Art has to deal with both light and dark, if it is to be true to life. And the Dark Arts will show you what lies in the shadows of the soul – if you're willing to take the risk of looking."

Above them, a bell tolled.

It was time for lunch.

"I always thought the risk was overstated," he said. "Surely that's just the bureaucrats wanting to make everyone too afraid to explore their powers?"

"Oh, I'm sure you're right about that. But that doesn't mean the risks aren't there."

"Doesn't it? As far as I can see there is just magic, and different ways of using it. Some people like to label them light or dark; I just reserve the right to draw my own boundaries."

"Then you show the depths of your ignorance," she said.

He turned away angrily. She caught his arm.

"No," she said. "Don't misunderstand me. I'm not drawing lines of ‘good' or ‘evil.' The Light and the Dark both have their place, and believe me, I know you can find terror or beauty in either. But you must never, ever, confuse the two."

They stared at each other. For some reason it felt terribly important that he understood.

He glanced at her hand. She was suddenly aware of the warmth of his arm. She let go.

"Are you coming up for lunch?" he asked.

She smiled. "I'm having lunch with my uncle," she told him, "but I expect I'll see you tonight?"

"If I survive whatever he has in store for me this afternoon," he replied, smiling.

"Oh, I'm sure you will."

He bowed to her, then turned and strode up towards the dining hall.

She watched him leave, her artist's eye noting the fluidity of his robes as he walked away. That shade of green suited him; either he had a very astute mirror, or he differed from most English wizards in more than his alleged command of her language…

~ * * * ~

The first unpleasant surprise came before Lucius even entered Dolohov's room.

Michael Mulciber was waiting outside – and by the scowl on his face he was feeling no friendlier than he had that morning. Lucius felt a stab of annoyance. No one at their earlier meeting had seen fit to enlighten him as to exactly what Mulciber was doing at Durmstrang, but from his clothes, bearing and manner of speech he was clearly not a wizard of substance. By rights he should have been trying to ingratiate himself with Lucius; but as things stood there was no way Lucius was about to expend effort on him. He donned a disdainful sneer, but before they had the opportunity to pointedly ignore each other, the door opened.

"Ah, come in gentlemen." Dolohov greeted them without a smile before turning to Lucius. "I trust you won't object if Mr Mulciber joins us this afternoon? As he has so kindly provided the material for today's lesson I felt it only reasonable to grant his request. And it would probably benefit you both."

Lucius nodded his assent. It was as meaningless as Dolohov's question.

"Good," the professor said briskly. "Let's start with a brief review."

Lucius wondered what was coming. So far his lessons had mostly served to fill the gaps in his Hogwarts' education: how to cast the spells he'd only been taught to block before, a greatly expanded repertoire of hexes, and the skill to heal himself if someone got past his guard. Durmstrang's nurse only opened his door for the most serious injuries – which usually involved unconsciousness of some form or other.

Not duelling, I hope. Last time he hadn't been able to sit down for hours, and while privately he doubted that any event put hosted by this brooding castle could be more entertaining than a Deathday Party, he didn't wanted to miss the festivities. It promised to be the first time since he'd arrived that ‘memorable' might not be equated with ‘painful.'

"I'm not going to ask you two to duel," Dolohov was saying in an eerie echo of Lucius' thoughts. "It would hardly be fair, after all."

On whom? Lucius glanced sharply across at Michael, who was regarding the professor with barely-concealed insolence. Dolohov rewarded them with a thin smile.

"Although..." he said thoughtfully. Suddenly his wand was in his hand. "Caedo!"

Lucius had gone for his wand at the first sign of movement.

"Deflecto!"

His counterspell hit the incoming curse, which veered towards Michael. The Irish wizard fell to the floor, clutching his leg.

"What the fuck was that about?" he yelled. He pulled up his robe and pressed his right hand over the cut as he reached for his wand with his left.

"Why all the fuss, Michael?" Dolohov chided. "I thought you were accustomed to knife wounds."

Michael's grip on his wand tightened as he glared at the professor, but Dolohov had his own wand at the ready. Wincing, he dropped his gaze to the blood oozing through his fingers.

"You're a wizard, Michael," said Dolohov abruptly. "Are you going to fix that leg, or do I have to ask Lucius to do it for you?"

Michael turned his resentful glare on Lucius, who curled his lip almost imperceptibly in response.

"I don't remember the spell," he muttered sullenly.

"Really? How unfortunate. Perhaps if you remembered the way here more often your memory might be fresher. And if you didn't confine your brawling to those with less than your undoubted ability, perhaps you might have learned to perform a simple blocking spell when you need to. Just because you happen to be talented in one form of magic does not mean that you should ignore everything else." He turned to Lucius. "Could you assist Mr Mulciber? And please be quick about it. There are enough stains on my floor as it is."

As Lucius approached he noted the wild look in the other's eyes. Michael was biting his lip against the pain, and still gripping his wand.

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't aim that at me," Lucius said pointedly.

Michael turned the wand aside.

"Perhaps if you put it down completely?"

"Don't you trust me?" He spoke through gritted teeth.

"Would you have trusted me?"

Michael made a sound of strangled fury and very deliberately placed his wand on the floor.

"Go on, then – do your worst." His sour tone couldn't quite mask a pleading note.

Lucius smirked. "Oh, I really don't think you'd thank me for doing that."

He knelt and inspected the wound. Characteristically, the spell had cut deep but clean. He pinched the cut closed, frowning in concentration. This was quite different to healing his own injuries, where he could feel what to do almost instinctively. Accelerating someone else's natural healing processes required more conscious direction, and the technique wasn't his strong point. He had no wish to get it wrong in front of the other wizard.

"Sano." He passed his wand over the cut as he pronounced the spell, visualising the tissues knitting together.

Michael gave him a curt nod of thanks that was heavily outweighed by his hostile expression.

"Any time," Lucius replied languidly as he stepped away. Then, as if a thought had suddenly struck him, he turned back and murmured, "But I almost forgot...." He flicked his wand, and the blood on the other wizard's leg disappeared.

"Thank you, Lucius," said Professor Dolohov dryly. "And now, Michael, if you would care to stand up, perhaps we can proceed?"

He stood, a little uncertainly, and ran his fingers through his cropped dark hair.

"And there," Dolohov continued, "we see demonstrated the benefits of the Medimagical Arts. Healing that sort of injury, Michael, is the minimum any competent wizard should know – unless he wishes to remain dependent on the charity of others, or the dubious protection of Ministerial law enforcement. In the old days no wizarding education was considered complete without a thorough grounding in the ways the human body can be harmed and healed, but I'm afraid few people wish to take the time to learn the subtleties of the Art any more."

He shook his head in mock regret, then smiled at Lucius in a way that seemed to lower the room temperature below even its normal frigidity. "But even in the short period you'll be gracing us with your presence, Lucius, I'll have time enough to show you the basics – and some of the varied uses to which they can be put."

He looked at him thoughtfully. Lucius returned the look, his mind racing. Perhaps Dolohov had just been responding to Michael's unspoken provocation, but his actions could just as well have been a deliberate move to shift the power balance between Michael and himself. Both in and out of the classroom, Dolohov thrived by playing people against each other, and it said much for his skill that even when anticipated the strategy was effective. He had praised Lucius that morning – as much as Durmstrang staff indulged in praise – and had just given him a chance to demonstrate his skills. It was now time to tread very carefully if he was not to trip in front of Michael.

"Tell me, how do they teach Ethics at Hogwarts these days?"

Startled by the abrupt change in subject, Lucius gave a short laugh. "They don't," he replied. "They just lay down their rules and expect everyone to stick to them."

Dolohov nodded. "Hmmm. I suppose they wouldn't have wanted to encourage you to ask questions they'd rather not have answered."

"Or encourage us to think for ourselves."

"Indeed. And what did they tell you about Dark magic?"

Lucius paused. He had been going to say that it is evil, but that wasn't really true – it was an unspoken assumption that Dark magic was something to be fought. Few had been inclined to question it, considering the destruction that Grindelwald had wrought two decades earlier. But last year their lessons had been more subtle...

"They said it was dangerous, and that we should remember the risks if we were ever tempted to use it."

Dolohov raised an eyebrow. "Uncharacteristically good advice," he conceded. "It is true that Dark magic can pose... complications to which Light magic is less susceptible. Although some like to believe that there is little difference between them."

Lucius shifted uncomfortably. Dolohov chuckled.

"Oh, no need to worry about thinking that," he said. "It's what the powers that be want you to think, if they haven't managed to frighten you enough to completely kill your curiosity."

Lucius stared. Dolohov smiled coldly. "If you can only see everything in shades of grey, you'll never be able to apply the Dark Arts effectively, however willing you are to try. Makes you far less of a threat to them – especially if you don't realise that."

He turned to Michael, who was standing with his weight on his uninjured leg, looking bored. "And what is your opinion of Dark magic, Mr Mulciber?"

"If it's useful, then know how to use it," he replied with a shrug.

"Ah, the practical approach," observed Dolohov. "I take it I shall be seeing more of you in future, then?"

Michael held Dolohov's gaze. The professor clearly took that as sufficient answer.

"Good. But you would be wise also to heed Mr Malfoy's warning about the dangers." He glanced at Lucius. "With Dark magic you can unleash powerful forces. It is better to be prepared to control them than to let them control you."

Both younger wizards looked perplexed. Lucius wondered how the ‘complications' Professor Dolohov had mentioned could be specific to the Dark Arts, but there was no way he was about to ask with Michael standing there.

"Perhaps it would be clearer with an example?" Dolohov asked. He didn't wait for a reply before turning towards a small door leading further into the dungeon. "If you would come with me?"

Lucius stepped warily over the threshold, eyeing the dark shape on the table.

It was a Muggle.

She was a Muggle. It was definitely a female. Her tangled dark hair half covered her face, and her chest was rising and falling gently. Asleep – or maybe Stupefied.

"Lumos! Sileo!"

As the room lit up, the air deadened in a way that only accentuated Lucius' growing unease. Dolohov shut the door with a dull thud.

"The Muggles say that walls have ears," he remarked, every word falling into a flat silence.

Lucius stared: he knew that Muggles had some strange ideas about magic, but this was truly bizarre.

Dolohov shook his head. "No, for once it's not fanciful – it's metaphorical." He looked around the small room with satisfaction. "In these particular walls, any ears would report back to me, and me alone. Still, even with the Headmaster away, it's as well not to be overheard."

Lucius privately doubted that the Headmaster would have dared to do much anyway. It was common knowledge that he was a Russian Ministry appointee, and was so nervous around Professor Dolohov that he spent as much time as he could away from the school.

Mulciber was circling the table with a predatory air as Lucius went closer. His skin was prickling as if in a milder form of Cruciatus aftershock, and not just because he was acutely aware of not knowing what the other two occupants of the silenced room had planned. It was the figure on the table. The woman, he reminded himself. There was no point in being inaccurate, even if the creature was fundamentally different to him and all he had known.

He had never been this close to a Muggle before. There had been the Muggleborns at Hogwarts, of course, but he couldn't deny – however perverse it seemed – that they had somehow possessed enough magical ability to make them seem alive to his wizard senses. He had avoided them as much as he could, which in Slytherin House had not been overly difficult.

Then there had been the true Muggles that he had encountered occasionally on the moors behind the Manor. For the most part they had seemed like cows or sheep, plodding along their well-worn paths for no discernible reason, but having enough purpose of their own to exude some impression of life. And he had found that when they were frightened they became somehow more resonant, as he felt them either snapping into focus to direct their fear, or being overwhelmed by it. It was almost like young wizards learning to control their magic, though the comparison was rather obscene. Perhaps fear was the closest thing to power they had.

But this one... Asleep, it – she – had no presence at all. It was weird, unnatural, to see a person but sense nothing. She looked the same, that was the problem. With that hair over her face, she almost resembled one of his friends – one of his ex-girlfriends, at that. How could something look familiar and feel so alien?

"Never seen a Muggle before, Malfoy?" Michael's voice had recovered its grating tone. Either he was trying to compensate for his earlier humiliation, or he really was feeling more confident – and that probably meant he knew he had an advantage in what was to come. Be careful.

Lucius drew himself up to his full height and treated the other to his most withering look. "They are hardly my first choice of social companion," he replied.

Michael flushed at his tone. Dolohov quickly intervened.

"They're generally a little more interesting than Flobberworms when they're awake. Lucius, would you care to do the honours?"

He reached for his wand, thinking quickly. Was there some trick to Muggles that he should know about? It wasn't just a question of waving his wand and saying the right word, it was knowing where to put the focus. For spells affecting consciousness, the difference between being and beast mattered. He'd had a fair bit of experience with both, but he wasn't sure where non-magical so-called beings fit into that spectrum. For the first time in his life he wished he had taken Muggle Studies.

It wouldn't have occurred to him just to shake her awake. That would have required rather more physical contact than he was comfortable with.

"A simple Enervate spell should suffice," said Dolohov with a trace of impatience.

A simple Enervate spell. That meant treating her like a witch, though from what little he knew about Muggles she was unlikely to have the same defences as a witch. He'd better not give her too much of a jolt then – he'd rather face the shame of having to repeat the spell than have Dolohov decide to use him to demonstrate whatever he had planned.

He only needed to perform the spell once before she opened her eyes. She stared at him for a moment, her eyes unfocussed, then looked warily around the room. Suddenly she was screaming at Michael, wild-eyed with fear and rage. She was using the bastardised Muggle form of Russian, of course, but those few words Lucius could make out were colourful to say the least.

"I think we can do without that," remarked Dolohov. "Michael?"

He reached for his wand. Immediately she flung herself away, rolling off the table. Lucius barely stepped aside in time to avoid a collision. She made a dash for the door, but there was no handle and it wouldn't budge. She whirled around to face the three wizards, looking at each of them in desperate appraisal – and in that instant Michael's spell hit her. She slumped to the floor, conscious but motionless. Her silence only made her emotion more palpable.

Michael heaved her onto the table with vicious satisfaction. Lucius edged away. The distress she was radiating seemed to fill the room, and something in her eyes made him profoundly uncomfortable. Dolohov didn't miss his movement.

"Yes, Lucius," he began in his calmly pedagogical manner, "as you're noticing, removing one means of expressing distress does tend to intensify the others. It can be quite a useful technique." Lucius looked down, wishing Dolohov hadn't noticed his discomfort.

"Useful for what, exactly?" he asked at last.

Dolohov smiled, his satisfaction making it clear that they were again following his intended script.

"You could compare it with the Patronus Charm," he replied. "You know how that works, don't you?"

Lucius suppressed his irritation. For all he knew, his professor wanted him to elaborate for Michael's benefit, though at that moment he didn't feel safe enough to make that too obvious. He answered tersely. "It's an advanced shielding charm, activated by positive emotion in the caster."

"Quite," agreed Dolohov. "Or to put it another way, it works best when the instinct for life is at its strongest. As does all Light magic." He looked at Michael, who was looking dubious. "Yes, Light magic does come in useful at times, Mr Mulciber," he added, "however distasteful you may find it. If you ignore it completely you'll almost certainly come to regret it."

Lucius allowed himself the slightest superior smirk. Michael was glowering as if he'd never had a positive emotion in his life.

Dolohov shrugged. "Well then, if you prefer, consider Dark magic. It works in precisely the opposite way, by tapping the caster's instinct to break the bonds of life. That is why it is feared, though that fear is partly a foolish import from the Muggle world. Death is, after all, an essential part of the cycle of life. No, the real risk lies in the choice of exactly where – and why – to cut the fabric of life. The consequences of making that cut can be far-reaching, but are sometimes difficult to predict. Therein lies both the power and the danger."

Lucius felt a thrill of excitement. This is what he had come to learn, this was the conceptual framework that had lain hidden behind the lists of techniques. It wasn't a question of learning new hexes or rituals, but of daring to reach for the power to shake foundations. The possibilities were too enticing...

He had completely forgotten about the Muggle woman on the table. Michael hadn't.

"And what's all that got to do with this?" he asked, gesturing at her limp form.

"Go back to the comparison with the Patronus Charm," Dolohov explained patiently. "That, you'll recall, is fuelled by positive emotions. Similarly, many Dark Arts techniques make use of the less, well, pleasant emotions. Fear, hate, pain, doubt... perhaps you begin to see how the complications that I mentioned arise?"

"Control," said Lucius slowly, his mind still racing with the implications. "With Light magic, the emotion that strengthens the spell must by definition strengthen the caster. But if you became lost in the emotion of a Dark spell... if you're having to dredge up that intensity of fear or anger... how can you control it?"

"Well, some people find it easier than others, of course," said Dolohov dryly. "Perhaps you might be inspired to work on that." Lucius gritted his teeth against the tide of anger that rose in him, as if in mocking confirmation of the professor's words. Dolohov continued, "Of course, some emotions are easier to harness than others." His voice hardened. "Vengeance can be especially potent, for example. But still," – and his glittering eyes rested on the table – "unless you require the most intricate and precise focus, it's generally safer to procure the emotions you require from others."

He prowled around the table, keeping his harsh gaze fixed on the Muggle woman's staring eyes. Lucius stood motionless; he had never seen Dolohov look so bitter, and he had no wish to provoke him in this dangerous mood. Michael too was stepping out of the way. The woman on the table had no such choice, but – Lucius suddenly realised – she was still reacting to whatever she read in Dolohov's face. The chaos of her anger had vanished, replaced by pure cold fear.

Dolohov smiled.

"Would you cast Cruciatus, please, Michael?"

He hurried to comply. Her pain cut through the muffled room like a screaming burst of white noise.

A long half-minute later, Dolohov signalled for Michael to end the curse, and beckoned them closer. She lay still, save for sporadic twitches as the after-effects of the curse subsided.

Dolohov raised his wand and half-chanted an incantation in a language Lucius didn't recognise. Slowly, white lines of light twined over and around her body – some thick and bright, others dull, each randomly pulsing as her body fought for equilibrium. With a careful movement, Dolohov touched his wand to a line on her right arm. It flared brightly. Again, Lucius' head rang with her silent screaming.

This time, though, something was different.... He watched her curiously. Her eyes met his with a jolt – fear and pain and pleading and fear and he was grimacing in a shudder of sudden empathy and horror and she was coherent, her reaction untainted by the chaotic static of Cruciatus. He tore his eyes away.

"See the difference?" asked Dolohov quietly, as he removed his wand.

"What did you do?" said Lucius, pushing away his shock at that curious contact.

Michael was shrugging. "Pain is pain, surely?" he stated flatly.

Lucius had obviously come closer to the professor's script, for it was his question Dolohov chose to answer. "Several years ago I was privileged to spend some time at the Ko Hung Institute in Beijing. You might be aware that they take a rather different approach to Medimagic than we European wizards?"

Both Lucius and Michael looked at him blankly. He sighed in mock exasperation and repeated his earlier incantation. This time his wand was aimed at Michael, who flinched and tried to dodge away – but the wall and the table left little room for manoeuvre. He was soon encased in the spell's strange threads. They were brighter than the Muggle woman's, and had a silvery hue. Michael looked down in surprise.

"It doesn't hurt," he exclaimed.

"No, Michael," the professor chided, "just seeing it shouldn't hurt, though it will show you where there is already pain present." He pointed at Michael's leg. The light was swirling angrily where the spell had cut earlier, and the lines leading to that point were stretched thin. Constricted, Lucius thought suddenly.

"But I healed that!" he said in confusion. "It was completely fine before."

"You mended the tissues perfectly, I'm sure," replied Dolohov. "But our Medimagical techniques do tend to focus rather too narrowly on an injury. The Chinese, on the other hand, are wise enough to also consider the subtle effects such a shock has on the rest of the body." He uttered a few more words, and the silvery lines seemed to twist and shift around the whole of Michael's body. The younger wizard winced for a moment, but then stood up, putting his full weight on the leg where the ugly knot of light had been. He gave a short nod of thanks.

Dolohov flicked his wand and the silver light faded. Then he turned to Lucius and repeated the spell. Lucius was irritated to note that the light surrounding him was a little less bright than Michael's had been.

Dolohov studied the pattern, eyes narrowed in concentration. "Headache, Lucius?"

Well, now that he mentioned it, he did have a slight headache, from the closeness of the room and his apprehension and that Muggle's nagging distress.

He felt a flicker of anxiety as Dolohov raised his wand. He saw it at the edge of his vision as a ripple across the network of light that encased him. So did Dolohov, judging by his self-satisfied smile.

But Lucius only felt a slight tingling spread throughout his body, as the caress of the strange light banished the last shadows of Desperserum, directed by Dolohov in a concentrated and almost intimate focus. Dolohov met his eyes, and something shifted in his expression.

Suddenly, the sensation in Lucius' left leg intensified. He looked down; the light there was fiercely bright. The tingling built suddenly to a focused cramping pain down his whole leg; he bit his lip against the agony, on the verge of crying out – when the pain cleared as the lines of silvery light rebalanced and faded.

Dolohov's voice was calm as if nothing had happened. "It's all a matter of maintaining the internal balance between light and dark... or not. You begin to see the potential?"

He certainly did. And at that moment he fervently hoped that he would never, ever find himself on the wrong side of Antonin Dolohov.

Michael was watching with more interest than he had shown so far. Lucius was not surprised when he quickly volunteered to try Dolohov's technique on the Muggle woman. Her reaction seemed less intense than before, as if this was a nightmare that she would wake from if she could only focus her mind elsewhere.

When it came to his turn, he was more hesitant. He was used to summoning the sudden burst of rage or hate needed for the Cruciatus curse, but this required a much colder focus. His first attempt sent an uncontrolled shock through her body. He tried again, making a careful attempt to start below the threshold of pain. He watched her face, her clear hate clouded by fear and a flicker of... what? Suddenly he wondered how he seemed to her, observing her reaction with a look almost too dispassionate to be cruel. They watched each other, joined in revulsion, curiosity, the flow of power... and that desperate pleading that had returned to her eyes.

Did she really think he would respond to her distress? What weakness could she possibly think she saw in him? He hated her for it – for her helplessness, for her strangeness, for the nagging disquiet he had felt since entering the room, for showing up his unease at Dolohov's careful violence and Michael's hunger for it. He would not let the others brand him a Muggle-lover. Viciously, he felt for another channel. Connecting to it felt easy now, as if he could almost control the flow of her life-energy. Whatever grain of hope she may have had was buried as he relentlessly increased the pressure.

She screamed. Aloud.

Dolohov stroked his chin thoughtfully as she slumped back, unconscious. "Interesting," he said. "You seem to have circumvented Michael's Silencing spell." He leaned over her, carefully adjusting her internal balance so that she breathed normally. His movements perversely echoed Narcissa's careful modifications to her dragon, his slow and deliberate destruction a mirror to her painstaking act of creation.

Lucius felt calmer now, apart from a claustrophobic desire to be anywhere other than in that stifling little room. He got through the next half-hour by concentrating only on the theory as Dolohov explained how to refine their technique, and by assiduously avoiding looking at the woman's face when called upon to put it into practice. It was too much to hope, however, that the professor would fail to notice his growing discomfort.

"You have a problem, Lucius?" he asked mildly.

"Well, didn't you say that distress can provide a fuel for Dark Magic?" His pent-up anxiety gave an edge to his voice. "How? I assume there is a point to this besides learning new ways to satisfy the inclinations of sadists?" He didn't watch for Michael's reaction, but couldn't miss the way Dolohov's expression hardened.

"There are indeed many ways of applying it," he replied coldly. "And you'll be learning some of them over the next few months, assuming that you aren't too squeamish to dig into your own baser instincts – or to learn to direct your own responses to pain. I merely wanted to show you a different source, since the opportunity presented itself."

"What sort of things can you use it for?" asked Michael. For the first time, Lucius was glad of his presence as Dolohov turned away to answer.

"Well, Michael, you remember I said that Dark Magic works against the instinct for life?"

Michael nodded.

"And that it is fuelled by, shall we say, negative emotive forces?"

Michael nodded again.

"Well, think of distress – or anger, or pain, or fear, or whichever you prefer to use – as the tool you use to cut through the patterns of life."

This time, his glance took in Lucius, who was listening with wary interest. Evidently satisfied his students were with him, Dolohov continued.

"As for what you can use it for, that is determined by three things. The first is your imagination." He gave a thin smile. "The principle holds physically, psychologically and also at the more subtle levels." He looked slowly from Lucius to Michael, his feline smile spreading. "What is it you want to achieve?"

He paused, letting the point sink in.

"Secondly, your skill. As I said before, advanced Dark Magic can be tricky. Learning the techniques is one thing – learning how to use them to get exactly the result you're after is largely down to experience. Though I will be able to point you in the right direction."

Michael grunted. "And the third?"

"Ah, the third. That, Michael, is what price you're willing to pay."

"To pay for what?"

"For drawing the power you require. Simple spells – like breaking a bone, say – cost almost nothing beyond your own will to do it. Likewise, cutting the life force of a single plant is easy, but try to spread the sterility to a whole valley and you'll find it takes rather more effort. And if you're not just working against life, but against nature – if you twist the natural order of things – you might find yourself twisted in return." He nodded thoughtfully. "Be very careful if you ever decide to graft beasts together to make monsters. And as for reaching out for immortality…"

Lucius sniffed derisively. "Immortality? I thought that was the province of children's stories and alchemists."

Dolohov turned back to him. "Oh come now, Lucius, don't tell me you've never thought about it. Just think what you could achieve if you didn't have to fear death…"

"It's been five hundred years since anyone managed that," retorted Lucius, "and it took him a lifetime of study. My responsibilities don't permit me that sort of indulgence."

"Ah, what a misfortune it is, to be the heir to a noble family," Dolohov replied softly.

Lucius stared at him in disbelief. How dare he? "Are you insulting my bloodline?"

"No. Merely reflecting on the advantages of being second-born. There's far more room to manoeuvre when you're unburdened by hereditary – or administrative – obligations."

"So you're well on the way to discovering the secret of the Philosopher's Stone, I suppose?" Lucius knew he was pushing his luck, but he was growing heartily tired of Dolohov's games, and if the professor would put up with insolence from the likes of Mulciber he could damn well take it from him as well. Dolohov, however, answered him seriously.

"I'm not an alchemist. Not that there aren't other, faster, methods for achieving immortality, but they have consequences I'm not sure I'm willing to face."

"What sort of consequences?" asked Michael scornfully.

Dolohov shuddered. For a moment he seemed to be staring at something terrible that only he could see. Lucius really didn't want to think about what could make Dolohov, of all people, look like that.

"It's really not something I want to talk about," he said. "Suffice it to say that the sort of rituals needed to gain eternal life could strip you forever of everything that makes life worth living. Would you be willing to take that risk?"

"Who wouldn't? I certainly wouldn't let fear stop me."

Dolohov's eyes flashed in fury. "One day, you may be very sorry you said that," he said icily. "If you ever develop the ability to find out, you may discover that there are very much worse things than fear." Lucius was very glad not to be on the receiving end of that glare.

"And what of you, Lucius? What would you do if you if you found a key to eternal life that didn't interfere with your responsibilities?"

"I'd certainly want to know more about the risks before I dismissed them," he replied carefully. It was a bizarre question, one he'd never been confronted with before. "Not that I feel the need to go to those lengths to justify my place in the world."

Dolohov nodded. He too had been brought up in the traditions of old bloodlines; he too would understand that his position was inextricably bound to his family's. It was not necessary for the likes of them to seek distinction by their own isolated acts.

"How unsurprisingly prudent of you," he remarked. "But don't forget that the less complicated workings also carry risks. You can never afford to relax your guard when dealing with the Dark Arts."

He pulled out his silver watch. "That's enough for today, I think. We do want to leave time to get ready for the party."

Lucius had never been so glad to see the end of a lesson. He felt a wave of weary relief wash over him as Dolohov turned to release the soundproofing spell on the room. But before he had cast the counterspell, Dolohov lowered his wand.

"I'll leave you to deal with the Muggle, then, Lucius," he said.

"Excuse me?" Lucius stared at Dolohov. The professor stood with his arms folded, watching Lucius with a very calculating look. Michael was leaning against the wall, wearing a feral smile. Damn. What was that about not relaxing? He tried to hide his apprehension behind a mask of scorn. "And how, exactly, do you want me to ‘deal' with her?"

"Kill it, of course." Dolohov's voice was hard and flat.

Lucius looked from Dolohov to the woman. They had left her sleeping, her earlier anguish no longer visible on her peaceful face.

"You have a question? I thought it was a fairly unambiguous instruction."

"Isn't that rather..." dishonourable? pointless? "...wasteful?"

"Plenty more where that one came from, Malfoy," said Michael roughly.

Lucius spun round to face him. "You don't get it at all, do you?" he exclaimed.

"What's the matter?" sneered the other wizard. "Haven't you ever killed a being before?"

"Where I come from," Lucius hissed, "that sort of question could get you into a lot of trouble."

Michael laughed harshly. "And where I come from, that sort of question wouldn't even be necessary."

They glared at each other.

"Calm yourselves, gentlemen," Dolohov broke in. "Would you mind getting on with it, Lucius? I really was hoping to have time to bathe before dinner. Or I'm sure Michael will happily step in if you're feeling too squeamish."

"I'm not squeamish," Lucius said angrily. "But I'm not about to do it without a reason. Especially after all your dire warnings earlier."

"I hope you're not questioning my judgement." Dolohov's rebuke came like a whipcrack. "If I ask you to do something, there most certainly is a reason."

And he was supposed to accept that? He'd just about had enough of being pushed around. For a moment he thought about walking out, slamming the door behind him, leaving them to it. But the look on Dolohov's face brooked no opposition. If he left now, would Dolohov send him home? Because of a Muggle?

He looked at her. Asleep, there was again a disturbing lack of presence. Well, she – it – was half-dead anyway. It wasn't his fault she didn't know it.

He gave Dolohov a curt nod. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Michael reach down to his boot. When he straightened up he held out the hilt of a knife with a twisted smile.

This was too much. He looked at the object in distaste, then spoke to Dolohov in disgust. "I thought this was an establishment for wizards. Do we really need to sink to that level?"

White with rage, Michael stepped forward, but Dolohov waved a restraining hand.

"Actually Lucius, sometimes it is – as I think you know. And it always pays to be comfortable with a range of techniques. But the killing curse will do for now, if you prefer."

There was a hint of challenge in that reply. Lucius responded, proudly grasping his wand. He tried to ignore Michael's stony gaze. Willing him to fail. Instead, he concentrated on the Muggle. Her chest was rising and falling peacefully, defenceless. The previous hour had told him all he needed to know about her life energy – he reached within for the will to snuff it out.

Nothing. He fought back his panic. He couldn't fail in front of them. Deep breath. Ignore her deep breath.

Michael laughed nastily. "Perhaps you would like some assistance from my inferior methods after all?" He was twirling his small knife between his fingers.

"Not just yet, Michael; I'm well aware of your abilities," said Dolohov. "It's Mr Malfoy's that are in doubt at the moment. Or maybe just his loyalties."

Lucius felt the rage surge through him. It was in no way a question of ability – he'd used the curse before, but always it had been necessary… or expedient. He certainly shouldn't fail with a common Muggle. It was killing without a purpose that he couldn't relate to.

"How dare you question my abilities, or my allegiances!" he exclaimed furiously.

Dolohov shrugged. "It's still alive," he said for answer. "And I'd be obliged if you'd aim that wand in its direction, not mine." He continued more softly. "Never make the mistake of thinking that Muggles are harmless." A wild anguish showed in his face for a moment, then he regained his inscrutability. Behind him, Lucius heard Michael draw breath for another insult. Enough!

"Avada Kedavra!"

The green flash threw the rough walls into relief. On the table, the Muggle woman was no longer breathing. He was vaguely aware that there was more... missing than there had been before. So the creature had had more of a presence than he'd realised.

He looked over at Michael defiantly, but the other wizard's face was unreadable. Dolohov nodded at him, but he couldn't tell whether his expression was approving or otherwise.

"That will be all then," said the professor as he released the spell on the room, "I shall see you both tonight." Seeing Michael linger beside the body, he added, "Leave that there; I'll let Professor Levski take care of it. It would be such a shame to be wasteful, after all."

Lucius flushed. If that had been a test, he wasn't sure whether he'd passed or failed – but in the back of his mind, he knew he had crossed a threshold.