Pathway to Perdition

Part 4

From the Apparition point halfway up a small hill, Thirladean Hall looks quite unspectacular. It sits at the foot of the hill, about a quarter of a mile from a miserable brook that does not seem to be up to carrying more than a rivulet of water even in this particularly wet August. Yet another hill rises behind the house, crowned by the fallen, overgrown ruins of a Norman tower of which only the squat foundations are still visible.

Like most remote wizarding locations, its surroundings have been made Unplottable and threaded through with Muggle-Repellent Charms. Even the black-faced sheep that graze their way over the surrounding hills keep a careful distance. No one, Percy realises, will therefore take notice of the three robed and cloaked figures who descend towards the house in the late-morning drizzle.

The mansion itself flaunts its relation to the watchtower on the hill. It is narrow, constructed from heavy stone blocks, and dominated by its own squat tower.

"Who lives there now?" Potter whispers as they make their way down through slippery grass.

"No one, I assume." Malfoy's hooded head does not turn as he adds, "It was long disused even when I looked into its history fifteen years ago. The wizarding family who took in Salazar died out in the fourteenth century. Afterwards, it belonged to several local wizards, but no one settled there for long. It's remote and unfashionable and rumoured to be unlucky. I doubt there will even be a house-elf to look after the place - a few portraits or an animated statue at most."

Percy slips on a muddy patch of ground, and Malfoy's hand flies out to snatch his wrist and steady him - again without sparing him a look. Percy's wrist burns even after the fleeting grip has vanished.

"But we don't need to consider the house - just the chapel."

As they approach, the building appears as a smaller dark shadow behind the house proper, half-cloaked behind a smattering of trees.

Potter runs spread fingers through his sodden hair. Percy suspects that seeing Lucius Malfoy in his new cowled cloak has caused him to leave his own hood down despite the rain just to make a point. Percy, who hasn't looked at Malfoy directly since waking with his face pressed against the man's shoulder at dawn, cannot really fault the boy for his obstinacy.

It has to be almost eleven, but still the surrounding hills with their yellow-patched grass - not the most hospitable of landscapes at the best of times - look dismal underneath the grey sky, and the rain doesn't look as if it's going to let up any time soon.

Earlier, they'd trailed after Malfoy into the maze of tiny cobblestone streets between Diagon and Knockturn Alley to buy a wand in a dingy little shop called 'Wands Without Questions'. A poor substitute for Ollivander's, as Potter had pointed out poisonously. The wand turned out to be mahogany (which hadn't surprised Percy at all), with a unicorn hair core, which certainly had. After a further trip to a robe shop, where Malfoy exchanged his threadbare Azkaban uniform for a plain black robe and a granite-coloured travelling cloak, they were ready. Which was a good thing, because Potter had trailed behind radiating all the pent-up urgency of a Crup in need of a tree. Percy had rebuffed Malfoy's sardonic promise of reimbursement as soon as he'd regained access to his assets with a flush and a mumbled reference to Ministry expenses. In truth, he would be lucky if he could even shake Magical Finance down for the wand.

He'd blushed even more when they had to hold on to Malfoy's hands to Apparate, Malfoy being the only one who'd ever seen the place they were travelling to. Guide-Along Apparition wasn't Percy's favourite means of transportation, but at least it meant Apparating under his own power. Still, he'd squirmed when Malfoy brushed the back of his hand with his thumb just before they spirited away. Potter had been bone-white and weak-kneed when they'd arrived, and Percy realised with a jolt that, considering one could only obtain an Apparition Licence at seventeen, he'd probably taken the test the previous morning before coming down to the Leaky Cauldron. And yet the little fool had said nothing at all!

"You've mentioned magical traps?" Potter ventures as they trek towards the chapel, squinting at the small building that might hold his heart's desire.

"I would not expect anything less from the Dark Lord," Malfoy replies. "And since it's Slytherin's grave, I'd expect something you might be able to help with, Potter. After all, you're sharing in the powers of his heir."

Potter's face darkens. "Let's just hope it's not another Basilisk," he mutters.

Malfoy smirks as he comes to a halt a few paces before the black door of the chapel. "I know that the Dark Lord had some of his most trusted followers working on a series of innovative traps when he was first rising to power. Although back then we did not know to what specific end."

The boy spins round to him. "You?"

"No." Malfoy's smirk deepens, and acquires a touch of almost wistful reminiscence. "My Lord trusted me with more... political tasks. I know, however, that Severus developed a rather... insidious potion on our Lord's behalf."

"Snape made that?" Potter blurts out, a twist of pain contorting his face.

"You've already encountered it?" Malfoy inquires, all silky concern, and Potter's face hardens.

"Let's go!"

The chapel is quite small, built from what looks like heavy grey slate, aged almost to blackness. A few stones have caved in on the narrow bell-tower. The door has been carved from black wood, with tarnished copper traces of a wand-and-garland design. Probably the original builders' hereditary crest - recognisable to wizards, but inconspicuous enough not to raise the suspicion of passing Muggles in a time before the invention of Unplottability Charms.

Malfoy draws his new wand to probe the door for wards, but there is no telltale glow. It is locked, however.

"If You Know Who has hidden part of his soul here," Percy speaks up, carefully studying the black wood to avoid looking at Malfoy, "wouldn't he have set trap wards to alert him if someone tried to break in?" The last thing they need is for He Who Must Not Be Named to descend on them while they're busy trying to destroy his tools for immortality. Percy shudders at the thought.

"It's not impossible," Malfoy admits. "Although such spells are long-range, and bound to leave traces, especially if the caster is a wizard of such immense power. The kind of traces that Aurors are particularly eager to detect in their search for Death Eater hideouts. Still, if we should succeed here, it would be unwise to linger."

Quite unexpectedly, Potter throws in, "He did not show up when... when we went after the other one. And I don't think Professor Dumbledore ran into him when he destroyed the ring."

Malfoy eyes him with an inquisitive expression, but asks no question. So Potter was indeed telling the truth when he told Percy that some of the Horcruxes were destroyed already... Somehow, it makes this whole thing seem a little less impossible.

"Only one way to find out." Malfoy shrugs and resolutely points his wand at the door. "Alohomora!"

The lock shatters with the groan of long-disused, rusty metal, and one of the heavy oaken doors wails open to reveal a gap of musty blackness.

Licking his lips nervously, Percy pushes it open a bit further with one hand, wand gripped hard in the other. It's almost completely dark inside. The two stained-glass windows high up on the walls are too grimy to let any light in. Percy hears his own Lumos echoed by Potter and Malfoy as he steps inside.

The pews have rotted into mouldy heaps on both sides of the aisle, and the gaps that litter the wooden spiral staircase up to the bell-tower remind Percy of the broken teeth of an ancient dragon. The altar is solid stone, a bulky mass at the far end of the chapel. The heavy stone chalice on top is covered with a thick layer of dust. The stained-glass window behind it shows a rather unconvincing St George, staff in hand. The head of a red dragon peering out from behind his legs betrays its origin as one of the traditional depictions of Merlin.

Percy knows little about the rites of early British wizardry. The magical community and Christianity had only fully parted ways after the widespread demonisation of magic in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, but Percy still recognises some of its imagery. Unfortunately, Professor Binns was always far more interested in goblin uprisings and troll rackets.

Walking further down the aisle, ears pricked for any sound out of the ordinary, Percy watches Malfoy crouch down over one of the marble slabs fused into the dirty stone floor at both sides of the altar. He is brushing dirt aside with reluctant fingers and a disgusted expression.

"Is that it?" Potter bounces over eagerly as Malfoy pauses over one of the slabs, but the man shakes his head.

"That would be far too simple." He sneers into the boy's face. "This merely seems to be his memorial stone - at least I think it is. The actual grave will be down in the crypt."

Percy crouches down next to Potter, who cranes his neck to see better. The marble slab is about the size of a coffin lid. The rough outlines of a male form and face are engraved onto the surface. There is no name, nor any kind of inscription, and the sketch of a robe could point to a monk or knight as well as to a wizard. The only clue that this might be what they're looking for lies in the line carved around the figure's middle: a knotted rope, revealed on closer inspection - and under the light of a full Lumos - as a snake swallowing its own tail.

Potter issues a hiss that makes all the hairs rise on Percy's arms and neck, but the carved snake remains cold stone. The boy looks up and shakes his head.

"Keep the location in mind," Malfoy advises. "The slabs traditionally mark where the actual dead are buried below."

The entrance to the crypt is half-hidden underneath the ruins of the bell-tower stairs - a round stone arch. But when Percy touches the stone, he can almost feel a subtle energy humming below, a kiss of warmth. He pulls his fingers away quickly when Malfoy's hand comes to rest next to his own, their skin almost brushing. Heat rushes into his face, and he busies himself peering into the darkness below. A spiral staircase leads downwards, disappearing after two steps into a vast sea of black. At least these stairs are heavy stone, looking solid in a way the upstairs chapel did not. The pale grey steps seem to have no edges at all; they are smooth and rounded in a way that is only possible with magic.

"You first," Potter orders curtly as he observes Malfoy touching the arch. "I still don't trust you, and I'm sure Percy feels the same."

"Oh, I wouldn't be quite so sure about that..." There's a silky-soft tone to Malfoy's voice, like the Kneazle who's cracking the very last bone left of the Jarvey. "After all, he spent the last night in my bed, not yours."

Percy can feel himself going pale from shock. He hasn't honestly dared to hope that his little... fling would remain secret forever, but to hear Malfoy giving it out as casually as that, just to hurt him...

"Don't be disgusting!" Potter starts, then his eyes go wide, mouth trembling. His stare almost burns the skin off Percy's face, as if he's waiting for him to laugh, or to deny what Percy has no intention of denying or apologising for. This is none of Potter's business! Percy may be the wizarding world's most pathetic fool, but he's not obliged to answer to the 'Chosen One'. He hasn't bound himself by any oaths!

The querying eyes go dull, then cold. Of course Percy knows from Advanced Muggle Studies that Muggles can have strange notions about what constitutes morality, notions which might have filtered down to Potter. But certainly the boy will have as much contempt for Muggle conventions as he's shown for wizarding custom. No, he's bound to regard Percy sharing Malfoy's bed as a violation of trust - which, of course, is exactly why Malfoy has brought it up. And while somewhere deep down Percy can understand why Malfoy would want to hurt the boy, he very much objects to being so used.

Although, an evil little voice pipes up in his head, he had the chance not to be used the night before, and turned it down. Had even quite enjoyed being used...

"I don't think that is of any importance here," Percy finally snarls in Malfoy's direction, although he gives Potter's gaze back as cold as he gets.

"And none of my business, of course," Potter points out curtly, although the stony look of accusation in his eyes does not waver.

Percy turns his back to him - to them both - quite purposefully, and strengthens the Lumos on his wand tip before stepping onto the first downwards stair. He can hear Malfoy's chuckle, even thinks he can feel the puff of warm breath on the back of his neck as the Death Eater falls into step behind him.

The staircase coils itself downward in a half-bow around a broad stone pillar, a chasm opening up on the other side. Percy finds himself measuring his steps carefully, and leaning increasingly towards the safety of the pillar. Once or twice, he jerks nervously when a ghostly fizz of bluish flame crackles along the stone only to vanish again immediately, almost too faint and too fast to be real. It might just be a reflection of their lit wands, and yet he recoils a little from the pillar.

"There's something there." Potter's voice comes in a whisper from above, and Percy stops nervously. "I can feel it."

"Perhaps," Malfoy replies, his voice just as quiet. "But whatever it is, at the moment it doesn't seem to be hostile."

Although Percy is not at all stung to hear them discussing matters over his head, he snaps, "Whatever it is, I'd rather deal with it on the ground!" Without waiting for a reply, he resumes his way down, a little faster than before and keeping equal distance from both the chasm and the pillar, where the tiny lights keep flickering by every so often.

He reaches the bottom without realising it at first. The last step is higher than the others, and leaves him wavering. A deafening crack follows his stumble, and Percy's first panicked thought is that the crypt floor might be rotted wood and about to cave in underneath him.

He hears Potter shriek, "Get down!", and a brutal push throws him forward as the whole staircase seems to... draw itself up, and then crumble above them. Out of the corner of his eye, Percy sees Lucius' white braid whipping the air as he is similarly hurled forward, before all that's left to fill his vision are rocks hurtling down on him. Something hits the side of his free hand like a blow from a hammer, and black, sickening agony tears a scream from his throat.

"Protego!" he croaks, hears Malfoy scream another spell behind him, and then he lands flat on the ground. A boulder explodes on the floor right beside his head, deflected by the charm. Percy rolls himself into a ball inside his protective bubble, cheek pressed to the ground as stones rain down all around him.

It takes a few moments after the barrage has ended for his ears to process the deafening noise and to restore his hearing. A hand grabs his shoulder, and when Percy hoists himself up, the pain in his injured fingers flares up until bright spots dance in front of his vision. Through watering eyes, he sees Malfoy's face above his. The man's hair is sprinkled with dust, braid half undone, wild strands straggling around his face. He looks unharmed apart from a telltale reluctance to lean his full weight on his left leg, which he has probably sprained as Potter pushed him out of the way of the falling rocks.

"Fuck! Potter!" Percy gasps - an expression that would have raised the eyebrows of his mother and his superiors - but Malfoy has already let go of him and turns to scan the rubble.

Pushing himself up to his feet with only the most fleeting glance at his maimed fingers, Percy stumbles after him. He hears Malfoy swearing softly just before he sees the limp hand sticking out from underneath a medium-sized flagstone. The boy lies sprawled on the ground, hair white-grey under a cover of dust, facedown and motionless.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" Malfoy levitates the stone off Harry's back and carefully turns him over. The boy's eyes are closed, his face very pale. A minor bruise blooms on his temple, his robes are torn in a few places, and a solitary trickle of blood coagulates at the corner of his mouth.

"Ennervate!" Percy's voice sounds high and thin as he aims at the boy's chest, pouring as much power into the spell as he has left. Still, it takes a second, even more frantic repetition before a puff of air escapes the slack lips and a shudder runs through the limp body. Apart from when he saw Ginny emerge from the Chamber of Secrets alive, Percy has never felt a more sincere rush of relief.

Malfoy leans down to study Potter more closely, curses again and points his wand upward, casting a "Lumos Perpetuos!" at the distant ceiling. Harsh blue-white light spreads upward in a cloud, thinning out until it hangs over the crypt like a faint sheet of glowing fog.

Percy peers round nervously. The crypt is about sixty feet in diameter, walls as smoothly polished by magic as the staircase has been - of which all that remains is a huge heap of rubble behind them. Eight grey stone sarcophagi, four to each side, line the walls, mirroring the memorial plates in the chapel above. When no immediate threat seems to be looming, he turns back to the injured boy.

Malfoy has used the time to divest Potter of his robe and shirt, and to cast a diagnostic grid over his chest. Highlighting the status of the ribs underneath, glowing yellow lines fan out from the boy's middle. Percy sucks in a nervous breath of air as he sees cracks in three of Harry's ribs, while a fourth one is practically shattered to bits. Malfoy's mouth is thin as he looks at Percy.

"Your hand," he commands. In confusion, Percy lifts his wand hand, but Malfoy shakes his head impatiently. "The other."

Feeling dull pain pulse in the requested limb, Percy protests, "But Harry-"

"Minor scrapes first," Malfoy retorts as curtly as if he was quoting from the Handbook of Auror Procedure. "I need you functional."

Wordlessly, Percy reaches over, only to find himself choking on a scream as the bone-knitting charm fuses the cracks in his fingerbones with all the subtlety of a vigorously applied thumbscrew. He can't help throwing his head back and biting his lip bloody, but at least he has enough presence of mind not to try and pull his hand away. Not that Malfoy's grip would allow it. The flesh-knitting charm on the heel of the first takes care of his torn skin. Although it hurts a lot less, it itches so badly that Percy wants to rip the newly-mended flesh off with his nails. Thankfully, it subsides to a mere burn after a few moments.

Malfoy lets go of Percy's wrist and looks down at Harry. The boy is still breathing shallowly; his eyelids flutter, but don't open.

"Do you want to do it?"

Much as Percy would prefer not to leave Harry's health to a former Death Eater, he shakes his head, still trembling with the aftershocks of pain. "I did pass all three of the Ministry's mandatory magical healing courses, but I've no practical experience... just on Nifflers..."

Malfoy pulls Harry's sagging form upright, unmindful of the boy's pained groan, and shoves him at Percy. "Hold him upright - make sure he doesn't move!"

"Petrificus Pectoris!" Percy casts, tapping his wand to Harry's chest before wrapping his arms around the half-petrified body that slumps against him.

Malfoy reaches up to brush wild, dirt-streaked hair out of the boy's face, and smiles. "I think I'm going to enjoy this."

Percy feels Harry trembling against him as Malfoy raises his wand and draws it along his skin right over the first of the yellow lines glowing on his chest.

At the murmured sound of the bone-knitting spell, Harry's muscles knot and he presses himself back against Percy as if Percy's arms were a sanctuary. He sobs, shallow and high when the Petrificus refuses to let him gulp in deep breaths, or cry out loud. Malfoy traces his wand along the yellowed outlines of Harry's ribs, not ignoring the boy's pained noises so much as taking pleasure in them. Percy recalls that satisfied expression from being pinned down helpless in Malfoy's bed, and inwardly squirms with shame.

When it's finally over, Potter's shoulder blades are slick with cold sweat, and tear tracks stain his face. But the yellow lines on his chest reveal straight, strong lines that prove the damage to his ribs has been repaired in full. When Percy releases him from the petrifaction, Potter collapses to his knees, but his breaths come clearly.

"Sanos!" Malfoy casts at him in a perfunctory tone, finally dulling the pain after he's enjoyed his fill.

Potter glares at him weakly, teeth bared in a feral expression, one hand pressed to his chest and probing his ribs. But instead of flying into a rage, as Percy has expected, he inclines his head to the former Death Eater. "Thank you." They still hold the edge of a snarl, those two words, but Malfoy nods and offers his hand to pull the boy to his feet.

Potter totters, but after two steps regains his balance. He pulls his robe back over his chest and lets his eyes wander over the room, over the tombs in their two parallel rows on either side. "This is the place, isn't it?"

"Third to the left," Percy recalls, trying not to sound as nervous as he feels. The blue fizzling lights are still flickering along the walls at irregular intervals. Percy just hopes that they don't radiate any lethal magic. But then Malfoy's diagnostic spell had not revealed any damage in Potter beyond the obvious.

The tombs are set off in niches that contain a stone or marble sarcophagus together with a statue or an engraving of the dead. As they pass, Percy's eye is caught by the representation of a witch with clear, regular features and plaited braids wound around her head like a crown. Her stern expression reminds him of a younger Professor McGonagall. Behind her, the image of Salazar Slytherin - if it indeed is Slytherin - looks strangely undefined in comparison, its features washed out as if they'd been melted into the stone rather than carved from it. Statue and tomb are both fashioned from identical grey stone.

Potter looks up into the statue's narrow, thin-bearded face - the Founder has been carved seated on a high-backed chair and slightly above human size. "It's him - it looks almost like his statue in the Chamber of Secrets." And, looking at it more closely, the two snake bracelets surrounding the stone wrists are rather indicative.

Percy eyes the sarcophagus warily. "Do you think it's in there? The Horcrux?"

"You said it was buried along with him, didn't you?" Potter half-turns towards Malfoy while his fingers brush the edge of the tomb.

Percy notices movement at the corner of his eye even as Potter speaks, and his hand flies out faster than ever before in his life. He grabs the woollen back of the boy's robe and pulls him backwards with enough force to end up with an armful of flailing Chosen One. The stone fist misses Harry's face and doesn't even graze his shoulder, but Percy can still feel the air hissing in its wake.

Malfoy grabs the boy's shoulder to drag him a few more steps out of the way, then he lets his wand whip towards the statue to cast a vicious Reductor Curse.

Percy can practically see the magic rushing out, and watches it just... evaporate as it reaches the stone head, not even raising a tremble in the intimidating figure. A faint rumble emanates from the statue as it rises from its seat and straightens up to full height. Percy stares into it's face, half-molten and acquiring an increasingly greenish tinge. At first it's only a hint of colour, but then it morphs into a slimy greenish substance that looks like something dead and too-long underwater. Malfoy, who has yet to release his grip on Potter's arm, follows the failure of his spell with an expression that makes Percy's heart thud painfully in his chest. He's never thought of Lucius Malfoy as being above fear, but to see his face betraying it...

"What is it?" Percy almost pleads.

"A Demigorge," Malfoy replies.

"A what?" Potter stares at the statue, then at his wand. And Lucius can't be right, Percy thinks, surely not!

"The fusion of a reanimated corpse, an inanimate object and a wizard's spirit," Malfoy throws back, his lips very pale. "A combination of necromancy and Dark Magic. Impervious to fire where Inferi are not, and immune to magic." He utters a short bark of a laugh. "Don't let it touch you, Potter. It's just as lethal as your Basilisk, although your death would be a lot uglier."

"But creating Demigorges has been outlawed by all wizarding bodies worldwide!" Percy protests, eyes glued to the creature as if it would vanish if he stared at it sternly enough. "There hasn't been one found in Britain since-"

"Yes, why don't you owl the Dark Lord a memo about upholding the Decree on Deleterious Conjuring - I'm sure he'll be impressed!"

"How do we destroy it, then?" Yes, leave it to Potter to come up with the pragmatic line, Percy grumbles inwardly, feathers still ruffled.

Malfoy laughs bitterly. "That's the point - we don't. Well, if we had a few weeks and a fully equipped laboratory to unmake the spells... But here - no."

Potter tears his arm out of Lucius' grip at last, and stares at the creature with the same stubborn expression Percy has come to dread. Then he hisses, the terrifying sound of a cobra about to strike that Percy has heard only once while visiting Bill in Egypt.

The statue - the Demigorge, Percy corrects himself - seems to cock its head, and when Percy peers at its face, he encounters eyes that look almost human, and are filled with an amused, frightening intelligence. The rumble repeats itself, and even as the fine hairs on his arms rise, Percy realises that the thing is laughing.

"So they've sent a Parselmouth to steal my Heir's soul." There is no grinding of stone lips and teeth in the creature's voice as it speaks, just a harsh, old-fashioned slant of vowels. "I hear you, young one, even if the tongue of serpents is beyond this form."

On Potter's other side, Malfoy bows his head with perfect sincerity. "Salazar Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four."

"A Parselmouth and a traitor of my own House," the creature muses. "No, my Heir did not quite tell me to expect this."

"Did he do that?" Potter asks, eyes fixed on the creature's face intently. "Trap your spirit in this -" He gestures, and finally settles for "-body?"

"No, young one - my Heir called on my spirit, imploring me to guard his soul for him while he went out into the world to fulfil my legacy."

"One of the pieces he's split his soul into," Percy corrects, his mouth bone-dry. "He has made at least half a dozen." He trembles visibly as the Demigorge's attention focuses on him, but the tiny look of approval Lucius throws at him makes the ball of ice in Percy's stomach thaw a little.

"My Heir's designs are his own," the spirit of Slytherin declares, before his eyes return to Potter. "But you feel familiar, young one. Who are you that you dare challenge me for my possession? His son? Grandson?"

The young man's face twists in badly disguised revulsion. "Neither. But your 'heir' marked me as his equal when he tried to kill me as a baby and failed."

"Are you a child of my house then?"

Potter pauses as if he's considering a lie, then his shoulders straighten. "No. The Hat... it wanted me for Slytherin, but I'd been told that everyone who ever followed Voldemort and helped to murder my parents had been there. I went into Gryffindor."

The Demigorge shakes its head. "Then you are neither of my blood nor of my House, young one. If you were..." For an instant, it seems to hesitate, but then it takes a step towards the boy. "I will mourn the necessity of your death, because power like yours is rare. But my loyalty is to my own blood."

Percy sees a fleck of blood glittering on Harry's bottom lip. His eyes are dark.

"I may not be a pureblood, but my father was, and at least my mother was a witch," Potter retorts. "Tom Riddle is half-Muggle!"

The spectre stares at him, through him. "But that means nothing to you, boy. There is no glint of respect for wizarding blood inside you."

"It's still the truth!" Potter snarls, unmoving although Percy can see that his neck muscles are knotted with fear. The ghastly green-dipped fingers creep closer, almost touching Potter's cheek in a gesture that vividly reminds Percy of Lucius taking the Vow. And yet Potter makes no move to protect himself.

"A child of Slytherin," the spectre hisses, lips only inches from the boy's, "would flee. You are truly one of Godric's rabble!"

"Without the Horcrux, there's no sense in running," Potter replies, tilting his head up as if to dare the echo of the mad Founder to touch him. And then, "You refused the curse of the unicorn blood, did you not?"

The spectre pauses, frowns, and nods at last with an almost puzzled expression on its misshapen face. "Unicorns brought magic into the world, and their presence maintains it. Their blood is the purest substance in existence, and anyone who sheds it, or worse, takes it into himself, strikes a blow at the core of magic itself."

"Tom Riddle did not. Refuse it," Harry elaborates after a second's pause. "After the curse he'd cast at me backfired on him, he made his host body kill a unicorn and drink its blood to strengthen himself. I saw it."

The statue's face is not made to display emotion, but Percy believes he can see a glint of shock in the too-human eyes.

In one fluid motion, Lucius sinks down onto one knee and bows his neck. "My lord, we have not come to ask you to take sides against Lord Voldemort. I merely beg you to leave this boy to his own destiny. His and the Dark Lord's powers and bloodlines are connected by force, and a Prophecy binds them together - yet another manifestation of the core of magic."

"My Heir is the most powerful wizard this world has seen since my passing," Slytherin replies slowly. "Your boy is nothing but a child." Percy watches Harry running his hand through his mess of hair as the Demigorge turns a disdainful eye on him. "What would you have of me then, young one?"

Harry swallows, and Percy can't help but observe how his wandless hand lightly brushes Malfoy's robed shoulder. Something inside his stomach squirms at the sight.

"Please let me have the phial," Potter says.

The Demigorge stands perfectly still for a long moment, then it lifts its hand over Salazar's sarcophagus, and after another moment, something small and glittering appears right through the stone lid, hovers in the air above, and then clinks down safely on the lid. Potter's eyes are as large and dark as Percy has ever seen them as he steps up to stand next to the stone monstrosity, and closes his fingers around the phial so very carefully.

Then he drops to his knees, clutching the small crystal container to his chest, and bows his head even more lowly than Malfoy had before. "Thank you, my lord." And Percy is quite willing to bet his life that he has never used this particular phrase before, nor will again.

"If you make it out of here alive, young one," the Demigorge replies, "you might be a worthy child of my House after all." It laughs its rumbling laugh, then retreats back to its stone chair, crouching down, and in front of Percy's eyes the poisonous sheen recedes back into the stone. Its eyes go empty in a way that almost seems to express relief.

Harry climbs to his feet, the Horcrux still clutched to his chest. His eyes shine with disbelief. "We're alive!" he gulps.

"Indeed," Malfoy drawls, but it lacks its usual bite.

"How do I..." Potter uncurls his fingers from the little crystal phial. It's about the size of his palm, all glittering rock crystal with a few smears of silver still clinging to the inside.

"Just shatter it," Malfoy says. "It's the first of its kind - there were no Unbreakable Charms on potions equipment at its time."

... and never let the British Historical Society for Wizardry find out about it, Percy adds mentally, or they'll burn you alive.

Potter's hesitation lasts only a second, during which his fingers trace the lovely crystal surface of Rowena Ravenclaw's masterpiece, then he whirls around and dashes it against the corner of Slytherin's tomb. It shatters with the tinkle of breaking glass and scatters on the ground in hundreds of iridescent slivers.

Like an echo of the breaking Horcrux, something... hisses... along the walls, not snakelike, more like a water sizzling on a stove. At first Percy thinks it might be the sound of You Know Who's soul part being destroyed. But Potter has seen that happen before, hasn't he, and if his scared face is anything to go by, this isn't it.

The tiny flickers of blue lightning that kept fizzling along the walls ever since they made their way into the crypt seem to... burst out at once, multiplying at a terrifying rate until walls and ceiling are covered with a crackling carpet of black, blue and white. Percy ducks reflexively, ready to cast another protective charm, but the lightning does not descend on them. It just fills the whole crypt like a dome. It's almost beautiful.

"What-?" Potter whispers, wand raised in a reflexive gesture.

"The Dark Lord's final trap," Malfoy replies, eerily calm in the face of such a lethal obstruction. "If anyone managed to destroy the Horcrux, at least they would never make it out to endanger the others. Or him."

"Are you saying we're trapped here?" Percy gasps.

Malfoy's eyes ghost over his face in a way that reminds Percy of how his fingers kept running over Percy's skin the night before. His shoulders break out in goose bumps.

"The slightest touch of it is lethal," Lucius states. He leans down to pick a pebble out of the rubble, and hurls it towards the wall. The instant the little stone meets the carpet of lightning, it explodes in a shower of dust. The effect is even more terrifying because it happens without any sound. Potter's mouth looks like a thin, grey line as Malfoy continues. "There is no way of defusing the trap for anyone but the Dark Lord. There is, however, a way of passing through it..."

Potter's head whips around. "How?"

"It calls for a life," Malfoy answers, and something squirms sickeningly in the pit of Percy's stomach. "Spellwork of this magnitude always requires a... counterbalance. There is no such thing as a curse that cannot be overcome - you should know that, Potter. But it has been up to the Dark Lord to specify the conditions."

"A life..." Potter's voice is gravelly, and very cold. "Do you mean if I cast the Killing Curse on you, Percy and I can just walk out?"

It brings the ghost of a smirk back onto Malfoy's lips. "A specific life," he lectures, unperturbed. "The Dark Lord has tailored passage to a blood rite - the sacrifice of a loved one. Quite fitting to buy the freedom of the Boy Who Lived because of a similar sacrifice, don't you think? He's a master of irony, Tom Marvolo Riddle."

And Percy, who has miraculously continued to breathe throughout as if his body had refused to process Lucius' words as much as his brain, hears himself say, "I don't love you."

"You spent a night in my arms out of your own free will," Malfoy retorts coolly. "For the Dark Lord, who has certainly never lowered himself to any form of affection beyond that, it will be enough."

"You knew about that all along, didn't you?" Percy whispers, feeling as if his voice would break. "That's why you-" It does break then, and Malfoy interrupts him as if to spare him further shame.

"I admit that if the Ministry had sent Alastor Moody, I would have had a bit of a problem."

"Shut up!" Potter nearly spits at him, fists balled at his sides. "Shut up, shut up! Do you really think I'd allow anybody else to die for me? It's not going to happen!"

Malfoy closes the space between them in one quick stride, looking as if he wants to grab Potter's arm but doesn't. "You little fool! Would you rather leave all of us to rot here, or dramatically pulverise yourself by walking into the spellfield? Either one of us dies, or all of us."

Me, Percy thinks, with perfect clarity. He's talking about me.

"You knew about this from the start, didn't you?" Potter shouts. "You knew and you brought us here anyway, and you made Percy-" He breaks off with a sob, shaking with rage and Percy wonders if he's about to come apart at the seams.

"Of course I knew!" Malfoy snaps. "What would you have done if you'd known? Avoided the place altogether, and got yourself killed by the Dark Lord for hanging on to your precious chivalry? Don't you think the Dark Lord counted on the fact that none of Dumbledore's pure heroes would be able to do it?"

"You swore me an Unbreakable Vow - I forbid you!" Potter screams.

"I swore to fight for you and protect you, nothing more." Malfoy reaches up and caresses the soft underside of Potter's chin, as if he were stroking a kitten. "I'm not yours to command."

Potter slaps his arm away with a clenched fist. "You can fuck me - that'll do too!"

Malfoy's left eyebrow rises, and the corner of his mouth lifts up. "You mean here?" There is such a wealth of despair in Potter's pinched face that Percy feels it tug on him despite his own terror. Malfoy seems to understand, and all humour vanishes from his features. "You are what you are, little Harry. We need you for the Dark Lord."

The boy makes an inarticulate sound and flicks his wand. "Sectumsempra!"

Percy has never heard the spell before, but Malfoy dives out of the way, a long slash of scarlet appearing on his shoulder and beginning to ooze blood.

"You little..." he snarls, and then, "Expelliarmus!"

Potter's wand jerks out of his hand and flies towards Malfoy, but the young man throws himself after it without a heartbeat's consideration, barrelling into Malfoy's chest, fingers clawing at his throat. Potter struggles like a man possessed, with fists and nails but still handicapped by his tender ribs. Finally, Malfoy catches him with a brutal backhand across the mouth that sends him flying to the ground. He shakes his head in a half-daze, wiping blood off his mouth. When he tries to leap up again, Malfoy aims his wand and snaps, "Petrificus Totalus!"

Percy actually winces at the sound Harry's head makes when it thumps onto the ground. Malfoy pulls the stiff body up by the front of its robe, and leans Potter upright against Slytherin's sarcophagus. Green eyes glitter with helpless, paralysed hatred.

At last, Malfoy turns to face Percy, who still stands rooted to the spot. He feels the familiar smooth wood of his wand between his fingers, pointing at the ground, and thinks about fighting. But it would be... undignified, and futile, and he'd only end up petrified like Potter anyway. Percy looks at his wand again, then stiffly places it on the coffin lid. He's quite proud that he can meet Malfoy's gaze straight on.

"What now?" he asks.

In Malfoy's hand, the mahogany wand shifts and shortens until the Death Eater holds a slender knife with a wickedly pointed tip. Percy swallows. There is a kind of... 'realness' to the weapon that even curses cannot quite manage to convey.

"I don't think it will hurt much," the man says, and Percy thinks Don't you fucking patronise me! and hopes Malfoy will pick it up somehow. Then he spares Potter's stiff body a hateful glance.

"I won't forgive you for this like everybody else!" Percy snarls, aware that he's directing his wrath at the wrong target, but unable to look without rage into the tortured, innocent face that has doomed so many. Oh, he realises that he's playing into Malfoy's hands there, too, who seems quite happy to let the boy drown in his own misery. But he cannot forgive Potter for killing him.

Malfoy puts his free hand on Percy's arm and tugs him down to his knees along with himself. Percy lets him, feeling as if his skin is wrapped in cotton, or doused with a preservation potion. He's a bit cold, and nothing feels real. The metal of the knife glitters as it comes up to his throat, and he squeezes his eyes shut, shaking so badly with fright inside that he can't help but wonder why his fingers aren't even trembling.

So many things he's wanted to do. Become Minister of Magic. Marry Penelope Clearwater. Win the respect of his brothers. Now his parents are going to mourn him because he's dead, not because they'll understand they were wrong about him.

He feels the burn at his throat and yes, it hurts, but nothing like the sickening, marrow-curdling ache of the bone-knitting spell. Although there's fluid in his throat as if he's about to throw up. Then he realises it's probably blood.

He leans his head back against the sarcophagus and forces his eyelids to open again. He watches as Malfoy wets his fingers in the blood at his throat before leaning over to sketch an elaborated symbol on Potter's forehead just beside the scar that stands out like a vivid, bloody spill. More symbols - they look Sumerian or Akkadian as Percy remembers from Ancient Runes, and that's appropriate, isn't it, because these kind of rites are among the oldest in wizarding memory - are drawn on the boy's cheeks, temples, over the pulse-point at his throat and on the backs of his limp hands. Potter is pleading helplessly with his eyes until Malfoy swipes his bloody thumbs first over one eyelid, then the other. The last smear anoints Potter's lips, dark and glistening against his white skin.

"He really is the Chosen One, isn't he?" Percy murmurs with cooling lips, seeking reassurance, or perhaps just human contact.

Malfoy looks almost angelic as if there weren't some kind of monster lurking behind the lovely facade. "Yes, Percy - I truly believe he is."

"Tell him to go and kill that bastard - Voldemort." Percy enunciates the name clearly for the first time, or as clearly as his bloodless lips permit. "Or I'll haunt him to perdition."

Lucius leans down and kisses him fully on the mouth, and Percy's blurry thoughts mourn that it's a pity he can hardly feel it. Even now he can't quite bring himself to hate the other man. He should, but it would be like hating a Nundu for breathing. He would have been so much better off with Adrian Pucey...

Through drooping lids, Percy can see how Lucius applies the same sigils to his own face and hands in utter concentration, aware of the heavy, wet blot over his chest where the surplus blood still soaks into his robes, probably dyeing his hair a true red. The Death Eater marks his own lips in dark crimson, and pulls the knife from Percy's throat.

A roaring sound fills the inside of Percy's ears as blood rushes out of him unobstructed, spilling into his throat and tingeing the inside of his eyelids.

The world goes icy and dark, and Lucius' fingers linger on his pulse like a wad of cotton, the breath of a cloud, and then drift off altogether. For an instant, Percy's mind brushes an entity as old and cold as an ancient snake; it seems to observe him with detached curiosity and an utter lack of pity. Then that, too, floats away as he sinks into a sea of grey.

~ Next: Epilogue ~