Candles were burning low in their sconces, the sputtering light splashing along the stone walls. A chill wind wound through the corridors, whistling through the cracks in the walls. There was an unnatural stillness in the air, the calm in the centre of a raging storm. Darkness had engulfed the castle, great black clouds gathering in the night sky. Rain pelted the windows of the warehouse; trickling paths of blood dripping down the glass in the firelight. Lightning crashed across the grounds, illuminating the gargoyle form of a Sybil Trelawney, hunched over a porcelain cup.

“Malice sweeps through the air,” she muttered to herself, feverishly swirling the tea leaves. Her eyes were frenzied, though more lucid than usual. The cup was cast aside with the tinkling of breaking china, “He will return.” Sybil swept out of the tower, her cloak billowing in the freezing breeze sweeping through the chimney breast. Her stride was purposeful and her gaze focused. With the dark forest in her sight, she turned with a crack and disapparated.

Draco’s wand slashed through the air at an alarming rate, spells firing like bullets through the night . Rain-soaked and exhausted, he was determined to finish this fight once and for all. He turned to look at his partner and gave a slight nod. Blaise Zabini flew from the ground as Draco hurried in the opposite direction, flanking their last opponent.

The man fell to the floor, ropes binding him from head to toe. The two Aurors sunk to the floor next to their quarry, and Blaise pulled a sheaf of Muggle post-it notes from his pocket. He wrote the time on the top sheet, peeled it off and slapped it on the man’s chest. A faint blue glow surrounded the captive, and then he vanished.

“Got to give Granger her dues,” said Blaise. “These port-it notes are ingenious.”

“Mmph,” replied Draco, with his head bowed to his chest. “The only easy part of the job.”

Blood crept from a wound on Draco’s arm; one of the assailants had struck him with a Cutting Curse. He held a steady hand against it, stemming the flow for the time being.

“One of them got away,” Zabini hissed, anger colouring his voice. “He Disapparated back at the docks before we could get the ward up.”

“Shit.” Draco shook his head. “The boss won’t be pleased.”

“Four out of five isn’t bad, considering the little Intel we had.”

“Not bad, but not good enough,” Draco sighed as hauled himself to his feet. “We had better get back to the office. Paperwork doesn’t write itself.”

“Now there’s an invention to set Granger on,” said Zabini with mirth. “Even you would give her credit for that.”

Draco laughed. “For that I’d even buy her flowers.”

With an inelegant snort, Blaise rolled his eyes and pulled out his wand. “See you there,” he said before turning and vanishing into the air with a crack.

Draco stood for a moment, surveying the damage done to his arm. Peeling back the tattered remnants of his Auror robes, he peered at the deep gash just below his elbow. Blood was still flowing from the wound, which appeared to be more serious than it felt. Heaving another sigh, Draco drew his own wand to Disapparate, though he would have to be late for the paperwork. He needed a trip to St. Mungo’s.

Lightning crashed across the seething sky as Draco materialised outside the hospital. The rain lashed at his exposed cheeks as he rushed towards the revolving doors. His heavy leather boots pounded against the tiled floor, falling in cadence with the drips of rainwater pouring off every inch of him. Small puddles of water stalked him through the busy reception, while people manoeuvred away from him.

He strode to the counter and spoke to the attendant. “Mary, long time no see. Could be doing with a Mediwitch about now.”

“Oh, Mr. Malfoy.” She looked up, surprised. “What have you done to yourself now?”

“It would appear I have tried to have my arm chopped off, so if you would be so kind...”

Mary the receptionist screwed up her nose as she caught sight of the wound and pointed at the board overhead. “Straight up to Ward Four, Mr. Malfoy. Do try not to come back soon.”

Draco flashed a tight smile as he turned towards the lifts. When the grilles opened on the fourth floor, he was blinded by a barrage of vermillion hair.

“Ooph,” he puffed as the redhead ploughed into his injured arm and the medical files she was holding cascaded to the floor.

“Oh, shit! I’m sorry!” she cried as she bent down to pick up the now muddled papers. She continued to babble her apologies as she scrambled at his feet.

“Weasley, I know I’m impressive, but there’s no need to cower at my feet.”

Her hands stilled. As her head rose towards him, he could see the mirth dancing in her russet eyes.

“Draco Malfoy, you total prick. Where have you been for the last month? My days have been dull without you in here bleeding all over the place.”

He pulled his face into its most superior look. “Some of us have work to do, Weasley. None of this ‘tending the wounded’ nonsense you’re into. Proper work.”

“I’ll thank you to remember that it wasn’t actually an old lady; it was a very thorough disguise.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I’ll let you believe that, Malfoy.”

He gave an indiscernible grunt and strode off towards her office, waving his wand behind him to collect her fallen documents.

Ginny stared at his retreating form and wondered why she hadn’t thought of that herself. Snapping her thoughts together, she hurried after him and her files. When she turned into her consulting room, he was sitting in a conjured armchair, waiting like an old friend.

They weren’t friends, not exactly. More like regular acquaintances. The first time she had seen him since Hogwarts had been in this very hospital, two years after her own graduation. She was an intern at the time, and had only been on the ward for two months. When Draco had arrived, he had been barely recognisable. His body was so badly lacerated that she was sure he must have been dead. When his swollen eyelids had flickered in her direction, she had leapt into action, using all of her brief medical experience to keep him breathing. It was a day she would not forget – the metallic tinge of blood in the air; the crimson liquid drenching her white robes. She had set herself apart that day as a reputable Mediwitch, and a bond had formed between herself and Malfoy which had not been broken.

“Well,” she said as she inspected his arm, “you’re quite lucky here; the curse just missed the tendons. The wound is deep, however, and the arm will be out of use for a few weeks at least. I’m afraid I’m going to have to sign you off, Malfoy.”

Draco let out a loud groan and looked at her with pleading eyes. She ignored the look, instead focusing on the bandages now pouring from her wand to snake around his forearm.

“Please don’t, Weaselby. I don’t think I can stand to be stuck in that ridiculously big house for more than three days at a time.”

She shook her head. “Sorry, Malfoy. Doctor’s orders. I’m sure there’s something useful you can find to do.”

He gave her a doleful look. “I suppose I will have to find something. Can I at least go in today to finish the paperwork? I’d hate to leave it all to Zabini.”

“I think you’ve lost too much blood; you sound almost altruistic.”

“Don’t be so stupid, Weasley. He’ll cock it up.”

“Ah, that’s more like it. You can go back today, but take this medical order with you. If I find out you’ve been working, I’ll personally see to it that next time the arm comes off.”

With another sigh and roll of the eyes, he nodded his agreement. “Until next time, Weaselby”

“Take care, Malfoy.”

It was interesting, she thought, as he swept from her door. Each time she said that she meant it more and more.

Draco’s footsteps echoed in the barren hallways of his forefathers. Grim light trickled through the high windows from a waning moon, casting menacing shadows on the stone walls. He hurried along the corridor towards the study, where a decanter of whiskey would be waiting for him. The surrounding darkness slipped into his mind and pressed on his thoughts, misery already threatening to take hold.

Three weeks, the medical order read. He remembered a time when he was happy to play on an injured arm for weeks on end, to allow himself the luxury of idleness. It was amazing what passing years did to a person. The very idea of spending weeks in this place was utterly abhorrent to him. Since his mother’s death he had barely set foot in the manor, preferring to Apparate directly to and from his bedroom so as to avoid the lingering darkness that engulfed the rest of the house. It was for this reason that none of his late parents’ belongings had been organised. Their bedroom looked as though they had never left it; his mother’s nightgown still draped over a chair, and a faint scent of her perfume lingering in the otherwise fetid air.

Draco sank into his favourite armchair with a tumbler of whiskey clutched in one hand; the other hand was held to his chest by a sling. As the fiery drink sank into his stomach, he mulled over the problem of his family heirlooms. He had no need of the dregs of a debased, decayed manor. The noble house of Malfoy was no more, and good riddance to it. But still the darkness lingered, oozing from the very mortar in the walls. There was a malevolent feel in the old house, a presence that failed to be banished. Lucius’ reign of terror lived on in the very foundations of the manor, soaked with the blood he had spilled.

Tap, tap, tap.

Head whipping towards the window, Draco was surprised to see an unfamiliar owl perched on the sill. Its beak was persistently tapping against the glass whilst its feathers were buffeted by the dying storm. Draco shuffled across the cold stone floor, just able to reach the high window with one hand. The owl swooped inside as soon as the window opened far enough, alighting above the fireplace and ruffling its feathers. A letter was tied to its foot, which Draco tugged off roughly with a barely apologetic look towards the creature. His eyebrows rose towards his scalp as he read the missive:

Mr. Malfoy,

Do not let him grasp the hand of power!

Draco rubbed his eyes as he stared at the note. He gave the whiskey a doubtful glance before reading the letter once more. It was not the drink; that was all that was written. He turned over the parchment, but it was blank. It didn’t look like an attempt to threaten him, so probably not the work of some criminal whose plot he had foiled. Only one person he could think of would write such melodramatic portents, but why on earth would old Professor Trelawney write to him?

Casting the letter aside, Draco drained the glass and raised himself to go to bed. The shadows seemed deeper than usual, the silence thicker. He hurried to his chambers.

Memories Moste Macabre

Chapter Two

Watery sunlight fell through the open curtains, just enough light to coax Draco's eyelids apart. It was his fifth day of sick leave, and so far he had done nothing but sleep, eat, drink and fill out paperwork. He had left his bedroom only for absolute necessities. His arm had now gone completely stiff, making him feel more like an invalid than he had reason. It was pathetic, he told himself. He ought to be making use of the time – it was a commodity he was unused to of late. Last night he had convinced himself that the time had come to clean the manor of its filth. Not the kind that a house-elf could clean, but the sort that only magic and willpower could cleanse.

Once his eyelids had lost their sleepy residue, he dressed in his training gear and strode purposefully towards the hidden door under the carpet in the drawing room. The basement beneath had been a well-known secret in Malfoy Manor. As a child, Draco had known that it existed, though he was never allowed to descend into its murky depths. Only as a late teen had he seen what was held beneath the floorboards; they were memories he wished he could scrub from his mind. Shaking his head, he placed a hand on the smooth oak door, which led to the stately dining room.

An overwhelming stench of mould and decay met him as he pushed his way into the room. There was a visible layer of dust coating the large ornamental rug that ran the length of the cavernous fireplace at the back of the room. He knelt beside it, curling his lip at the fustiness emanating from the material, and flipped it back on itself, revealing the hatch leading to the dark heart of the manor. Draco lit his wand and steeled himself to delve once more into its depths.

Every step down the creaking stairs was more difficult than the last. The ominous feel of the old building seemed to palpably grow the further he went. The air seemed thicker, more malleable; it was bitingly cold as he reached the bottom step, his breath fogging in front of him. Foot catching on the rough stone beneath his feet, he stumbled into the dungeon. It was quite small, considering the size of the manor. It comprised of only a few short corridors, with around ten rooms in total. Six of those rooms were used to hold prisoners, Draco remembered. He tried to push the memory of old Ollivander's screaming from his mind, but it played over and over again in his ears like a banshee's cry.

Shutting his eyes tightly, he walked past the torture chamber, only opening them fully when he stood at the end of the furthest corridor. The remainder of the rooms in the dungeon were used for the storage of 'special' items, namely whatever cursed and illegal items Lucius could get his hands on. The Hand of Glory was still stashed away amongst the pile of dark artefacts, Draco's own stain on the name of Malfoy. There was one room, though, which had been solely left to his mother to store her most prized and cherished possessions. It was a room that Draco had only entered once, to retrieve his mother's will. It was to this room he was now headed, feeling that if he had to cleanse the rancid bowel of the manor, it was best to start in the more pleasant room and work his way towards the worst of it when his arm was not so stiff. It would not be useful to be caught off guard by a cursed object with only one arm to defend himself.

The door to his mother's vault was ajar; he must have left it open when he rushed from it before. He pushed it open silently, taking in the objects included in Narcissa's most precious belongings. There were stacks of jewellery boxes, which contained all manner of jewels and precious metals: necklaces strung with lustrous pearls, and rings with diamonds and rubies so large that they would weigh down the whole arm. Narcissa always did take pleasure in beautiful things, so this collection did little to surprise Draco. He would have them moved to the family vault for the time being, until good use could be made of them.

There were other assorted items of finery too: paintings, ornaments and gowns. The further back he moved, though, the less luxurious the items became. Row upon row of books lined a grand bookshelf, each one looking as though it had been read more than once. Draco had never known that his mother was such an avid reader, and the surprise was a pleasant one. It warmed him to know that there was more to Narcissa Malfoy than fancy pearls and perfect etiquette.

Something caught his attention out the corner of his eye. Turning towards the edge of the vault, he saw a collection of children's toys. They must have been his as a child, he supposed. Amongst the rocking horses, toy broomsticks and ever-spinning tops was a box. There was nothing outwardly unusual about the box, but it held his attention none the less. In fact, it was quite difficult to tear his eyes from. It was an ornate thing, but obviously antiquated. Carvings of gruesome faces adorned the lid; it seemed to Draco as though one of his father's possessions had found its way into his mother's store.

Unease washed over him as he crouched beside it – perhaps this was to be his first dark artefact to eradicate from his home. The wood felt worn under his fingertips, as though it had been opened many times before. There was no sophisticated lock, just a little latch holding the top closed. He flipped it decisively, and snapped the lid back quickly. For the second time in a week, Draco had the desire to rub his eyes. There was no dangerous poison, no cursed jewellery, and no book of darkest arts. There was what looked like a very old hand puppet.

It was crudely made into the form of a jester, though it did not look even remotely funny. The jester's face was made from wood, carved into harsh lines and painted a sickly grey colour. The eyes were almost lifelike, they were so realistic: bright blue irises surrounded pupils so black that they looked infinite. The body was a piecemeal of scrap wood and what looked like an old sock, so roughly hewn together that the whole thing clattered and swayed as Draco lifted it from the box. He could never remember seeing it before.

Curiosity getting the better of him, he put the doll down on top of the box and slid his hand in the hole between the dangling legs, the rough wood scratching his skin. It lay limp and lifeless on his hand, the legs creaking slightly as they swayed with his movements. Gazing into its eyes, Draco's fingers found purchase on the mechanism which would move the mouth.

"Why don't wizards wear flat hats?" he said in his best croaky, parrot-like voice. The eyes wobbled alarmingly as its wooden mouth banged open and closed.

"Because there is no point in it!" Draco answered his own joke, tipping the doll's head back and making it give a guttural laugh.

"Even your jokes are a disappointment," a voice spoke that was not his own.

Draco gave a start and stared at the thing on his hand, which he was sure had just spoken. Its beady eyes turned on their own accord to gaze into his own. Draco gave a startled cry and tugged at the head to rip it from his hand, causing splinters of wood to drive deeper into his already grazed hand. The puppet did not come free.

A sly laugh slipped from the jester's lips, so cold and callous that it gripped Draco's spine like an icy hand. He shook his arm violently to throw it off, but it just jangled and clacked as the wooden limbs banged together.

"Why are you so keen to remove me, boy? We're only just getting acquainted."

The voice was familiar in its malice, as though his late father was channeling his spirit through the awful contraption.

"What are you?" he asked it sharply.

"Me? Why, I am you, of course. Or what you could be, if you choose. Your path is not already laid out, you know. You could be great."

The puppet's voice was like a charm, twining around Draco's senses and filling him with ease. It was melodic in its tone, soothing like a child's lullaby; it pulled on his thoughts and shaped them into its own.

"What do you mean, you are me? I've never seen you before. What dark magic is this?" Draco's voice rose in irritation, anger beginning to boil in his blood.

"Until you put me on, I was nobody. Your blood gave me life. It is weak, your blood. Your father was right about you."

Draco lifted his wand to blast the horrid thing to smithereens, but it spoke again.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you. Who knows what might happen?"

"I'm willing to find out," Draco replied. "Reducto!"

Sybil's hands shook as she shuffled the deck of tarot cards.