The symbols on the floor flared with a dull crimson light. I intensified my focus, pouring more power into the words. I was literally commanding the magic to find what was mine but lay outside of me. At that moment, my thoughts were of sticky blood on stones, the smell of iron and dust, cold dampness soaking up scarlet. I didn't know what these associations were, but they were there.
And suddenly, the glow of the ritual circle began to fade... then shine again. And so it went, flickering in a circle as the ritual initiated its action.
"It worked!" Mother exhaled.
But that was only the beginning. The ritual, having found its target, began to project an image into the bowl I held in my hands. Before my eyes, through the veil of magic, the outlines of something emerged... just a thick, red something... as if watercolor were mixed with dust... and then the image began to pull back from the blood, flying out of... a cave? I had expected some half-destroyed building or someone's manor.
I stood, unmoving, maintaining the connection. The most unpleasant part was feeling the magic draining my strength. Every moment of the ritual devoured my magic, which generously flowed from my magical channels. In return, I saw this place, which receded further with each second; the bowl with bloody water showed the path to me. In the end, the ritual returned to me, standing with my back turned.
The ritual seemed to have forced me to memorize the entire route. I knew the direct path to the place. But that wasn't important; what mattered was that I recognized this place. The emptiness in my memory shuddered, and from it, as if from the depths of murky water, that same smell of old wood and dust... and tobacco? surfaced. Along with the smells, something seemed to click in my head.
"Oliver..." a name suddenly appeared in my head, and my consciousness immediately tried to correlate it with the wizard whose head exploded in my hand in that brief flash of memory, but something about it felt off to my mind. "Oliver..."
I didn't remember anything beyond the name, but now I had the chance to visit the place where perhaps I could remember more or at least get memory fragments. Ideally, I could experience the first memory "collapse" before the school year started. Otherwise, the school year would begin later for me than for others. And now it was time to inform Father of the ritual's results.
***
It took us several Apparitions to reach the location. First, an entire combat "star" moved in to clear or assess threats. Only after one of the fighters returned and reported it was clear did the final Apparition follow. Father and I, two private investigators or detectives (the label didn't matter), and a curse-breaker just in case. All of them worked for our family on a permanent basis, not just since this incident. So, only the most reliable people were here. That's exactly what we needed at that moment.
And in general, those who guarded our manor and us were selected from the most loyal wizards, who owed our family not just money and stable, well-paid work, but their freedom — after all, the majority were former Death Eaters, the ones who did the dirty work. But among them, most were from the group that had been normal, just seeking advancement in their youth. After all, business was currently shifting towards Muggle-borns, and Father didn't need extra problems. In short, these people owed the Malfoys their freedom.
It was amusing that Father, being the treasurer and, essentially, the left hand of Voldemort, not only managed to escape the brutal grind of the state apparatus but also saved very, very many from Azkaban, thereby increasing the number of our vassals with extremely distinguished names, and also gaining such loyal fighters with real experience, ready to turn a blind eye to anything.
A pity that "many" in the magical world could mean even 15-20 fighters. But for wizards, such a number was a very strong argument. Let me remind you that the entire Auror Office of the British Ministry of Magic consisted of about two hundred Aurors plus a few retired ones teaching recruits at the academy.
Although, overall, that was normal, considering an Auror was not the equivalent of a Muggle police officer but more like special forces and the FSB combined. A very rough comparison, of course, but the closest analogy. There were about two, maybe two and a half times as many DMLE officers, and they acted as the police. Therefore, even 15-20 skilled fighters were considered more than a significant force within magical Britain. And there were also just guards who protected our family's enterprises on-site; there were slightly more of them, but they didn't particularly excel in combat skills.
So, thanks to my knowledge of the location, using the map I was given, I simply marked the approximate route. And so, a couple of hours after the ritual, I found myself in a cave in one of the wildest and most desolate parts of Scotland, among heather-covered hills. The place was damp, but in Britain, there were generally few places that weren't damp.
As soon as I stepped over the cave's threshold, fragments of memories flashed before my eyes. Literally a moment and a couple of frames: I'm falling, I'm unwell and disoriented, and then abruptly another moment, defending myself with bare hands, creating a wandless analogue of Protego.
In roughly this manner, I got underfoot of the investigators, meanwhile telling Father about the flashes of visions. After about thirty minutes, one of the fighters returned and reported that a recently burned wooden house had been found within a couple of kilometers. Nothing inside remained intact. But the timing seemed to match. One of the investigators headed there.
I, however, didn't understand why, if they burned some house to hide something, they didn't remove the traces here in the cave. Of course, I was glad they hadn't, but it made me wary. It seemed my wariness was in vain, as professionals were working. The investigators used detection spells I'd never even heard of. And the fighters had checked everything thoroughly, and were nearby now.
While I was scouring the cave, trying to find more fragmented memories deep inside, one of the investigators found a wand black as night.
It was her. Blackwood of the Huang genus... Heartwood ebony without distinct growth rings, very hard and heavy. And it's the most valuable wood type, especially considering my wand was made from the Ceylon variety of this tree, straight from India. The rarest variety!
My beloved wand was immediately in my hands... I won't lose you again, my dear...
According to Ollivander, wands made of blackwood are ideal for combat magic and Transfiguration. In short, my love for this work of art was mutual. How glad I was to feel the pleasant texture of my wand again. I was incredibly grateful for this find. Of course, it's a pity the trunk likely wouldn't be found — I had managed to accumulate so much in it... but I'll be honest, the wand was much more valuable to me.
After this joyful find, I tried to be less of a nuisance, but I still wanted to find that puddle of blood, which had long since taken on a dark red, almost brownish hue. The damp air hadn't allowed the blood to dry completely... if dust and dirt soaked with my blood still counted as mine. Though since the blood ritual considered it so, who was I to argue.
Actually, the amount of my blood the ritual had shown wasn't that impressive, considering the amount of other blood. At one point, while examining all this blood, a vision flashed before my eyes: someone's body almost cut in half by a Sectumsempra curse.
Apparently, it wasn't for nothing I learned that dark — though I'd say combat — spell this summer.
For some reason, as I replayed all these scenes in my head that arose in this cave, each time I noticed more and more new details, and the surname "Renfro" suddenly got stuck in my head. What Renfro?
Even when I stepped back from these sharp flashes, the name Oliver and the surname Renfro didn't form a clear picture. Something didn't add up. I asked an investigator; he didn't know anyone with the surname Renfro. I got the same answer when I asked Father. Apparently, not a well-known surname. I told Father, of course, that it was somehow connected to the kidnappers.
At least the investigators had long since confirmed that the huge, blood-soaked area was not soaked with my blood. That was easy to check with a one hundred percent sample of my blood. And I provided that sample.
In short, I definitely killed or seriously injured someone... though most likely killed. The memory fragments strongly hinted at that.
Wait, if the blood affected me so much, maybe I should examine my own blood more closely? Perhaps the memory would throw something else my way. I crouched down, continuing to carefully examine my own blood and think. No effects followed. I stared, poked, felt, thought... hoping for some miracle, but no miracle happened. The miracle would be if Oliver...
Stop, what the hell Oliver!? What would be a miracle, think, brain! Here I am... I can feel that this name is the key... Oliver... Oliver...
***
The gloom of the cave was thick. It was hard to see anything, and it smelled of dampness, dust, and mustiness. The wide stone cavity, resembling an air sac, held recent memories of a wizarding battle: spell scars on the walls, scorched patches of stone, scattered small debris, and puddles of blood that had long since stained the rocky dust, losing their scarlet beauty.
Lucius Malfoy stood at the entrance, his thin nostrils twitching slightly as he analyzed the scent. He wasn't squeamish — what were these pathetic scorch marks on stone to him, who had seen the basements where the Dark Lord's enemies screamed themselves hoarse, and where magic left far more horrific marks on people? In his life, Lucius had seen such terrible things that even the lowest denizen of Knockturn Alley hadn't witnessed. And the scariest part was that it hadn't even affected Lord Malfoy's personality. Probably.
Arcturus Malfoy — his son and heir — was now crouching, motionless for five minutes, if not more. Lucius saw that the fingers of his left hand rested on the uneven stone floor, touching a dark, almost black stain in the meager light. It was blood, his blood, spilled here a week and a half ago and already changed in color.
Nevertheless, if there was also other blood here, it suggested that Lucius had not in vain agreed with his son's arguments back then and found the best possible — he hired not just a Master Duelist from Germany, but a highly respected and experienced duelist.
No, of course, he had understood even before that Arcturus was good at practical magic — even Snape, stingy with praise, had noted that — but to duel an adult wizard? Or rather, several, who, while likely only trying to capture him, still... Lucius acknowledged his son's talents.
He himself was not a strong fighter and knew it, and never dreamed of personal power. Because of this, he didn't believe his son could go down that path or that he would have decent success in the combat aspect of magic. Generally, it was unbecoming for Malfoys to dirty their hands, Lucius thought, which was why he turned up his nose at such things since childhood.
Apparently, Black blood couldn't help but manifest in a wizard. Thankfully, at least the curses weren't passed down, as Lucius still remembered what horror a Black's rage, amplified by an ancient family curse, could become.
The damp cave air hadn't allowed the blood to dry completely and turn into a lifeless crust; it remained viscous, still holding a faint but unbearably familiar echo of his own magical signature. This conclusion arose because the ritual had worked... despite all logic.
Usually, spilled blood lost its magical hue after so many days. Perhaps the cave wasn't the most ordinary, nor the surrounding area. Or perhaps there was another secret bothering the investigators, who preferred to be called detectives. In any case, he would definitely conduct research here for elevated magical background after all this was over.
Meanwhile, his thoughts returned to Arcturus. Even in this gloom, Lucius noticed that Arcturus was clutching his newly recovered wand in his right hand with a white-knuckled grip. The wand, black as night, almost merged with the cave's darkness.
Who would have thought it had been lying here in the dust all this time — flashed through Lucius's mind. The ebony wand was noticeable in the semi-dark cave only against the paleness of Arcturus's fingers.
But right now, the boy was clearly not thinking about the wand. His entire attention was absorbed by the dark stain under his fingers. He was touching it — apparently trying, through this physical contact, to wrest from his memory what it so stubbornly refused to show. It seemed Arcturus had frozen, turned into a statue.
Lucius continued to watch. He certainly had patience. Minutes stretched, blending together, and the air in the cave, which already seemed frozen, remained frozen. Everyone was waiting for the young Malfoy to speak. Everyone tried not to disturb him. Something was happening, but not in the real world — in his head. Despite this, every second of this unnatural silence echoed in Lucius with a dull irritation.
But Lord Malfoy didn't move. Didn't utter a word. Because beneath all this seething was another, colder, more important thought: what if?
What if his son remembered everything now, and they got solid leads? Otherwise, Lucius had already despaired of finding those who had literally spat in the face of their entire lineage. Yes, the head of the Malfoy family was hoping for this slim chance, because neither investigators, nor Aurors, nor even mercenaries hired by the family had achieved results. A true professional had cleaned everything up. Everything, except this cave.
The thought that his heir might remember everything made Lucius clench his teeth until it hurt. That would be a victory. Bitter and belated, but a victory! And a triumph not only over enemies, but over that humiliating helplessness he, Lucius Malfoy, had felt all these days. Such humiliation would not be easy to wash away, even after a demonstrative punishment, and if that punishment never came, everything would be extremely bleak.
If the real kidnappers were never found, Lucius had long been considering another option. He would have to frame someone, to at least demonstrate strength through proxies.
So he waited and waited silently. At one point, the wait paid off in full, and it was triggered by just one phrase.
"I know... I know! It's all Oliver... Oliver Unsworth! The Unsworths arranged it all! Those Mordred-forsaken Unsworths!" His voice, first a choked whisper, grew, turning into a hoarse, furious shout. "Worthless... pathetic vermin!"
Arcturus, in a frenzy, repeated the surname Unsworth... and repeated it in rage, almost laughing from madness and fury that had apparently overwhelmed him and was spilling out in this peculiar way.