The Veil of Forgotten Spells

Chapter Six: Shadows in the Fog

"We are not makers of history. We are made by history." - Martin Luther King Jr.

As Hermione Granger walked along the stone-lined Knockturn Alley, unease thickened about her. The dense smell of wet stones and something else-a more magical smell-was the scent of ancient magic, entwined into the life of this abandoned section of London. The sky above was a near-choking slate color, the moon invisible behind the soft-hissing mist. She clutched her cloak tighter, a delicate shiver running along her spine.

There was someone with her.

Something to hide. Draco Malfoy accompanied her, face impassive, though Hermione felt his irritation simmering under his composed façade. His eyes scanned the dirty shop fronts, his eyes tracing the dingy alleys for every moment of movement, every moment of shadow. He should have steadied her by his side, and yet the only thing her mind could register was the dreadful game they had been drawn into against their will. The pendant, which Harry and she had excavated, breathed its last magic into the dark corners of her mind, a murky mist of discontent.

"We shouldn't be here," she whispered very softly. "Someone who brought us here to present us with this pendant has had it in for us."

Draco smiled, but not in joy. "Yes. That's why we must know the truth."

"Never mind." He cut off. His wand pulsed lightly, the end shimmering with a detection spell. Hermione caught her breath at where he gazed. The somber walls of the desolate apothecary observed silently; along the floor of that space extended the form of Malcolm Rowle. But this was not so.

The door itself was open.

Hermione's heart raced. She looked at Draco. He nodded before they went inside, wands in hand. Inside stank of rot, damp herbs sour and mildewy, fouled potions gone bad. Shelves were half-full like the business had been abandoned in a rush. A shattered vial on the ground under her foot covered the air in a fine mist of rainbow-colored smoke.

"Incendio," Draco whispered, illuminating the emptiness.

Something silent and fast moved through the darkness. Hermione threw her wand, a spell on the tip of her tongue, but a voice cut suddenly across the air.

"You are late."

She and Draco turned sharply. In the corner of the shop was a shape wrapped in shadows. Hermione gripped her wand harder. Too familiar.

"Blaise?" The incredulity crept into his voice.

The man stepped into the light. Shadows chased the contours of his face. Blaise Zabini was as calm as ever, his dashing robes creased and immaculate. His face was unemotional, with no hint of feeling, but his eyes—Hermione recognized at once. Something was wrong. The rigidity of his face, the tension of his body.

"What the bloody hell are you doing here?" Draco snarled.

"I'm here to keep you alive, Malfoy," Blaise said, ruffling his hair.

This curled Hermione's stomach. "You knew?"

"Nothing about everything," Blaise replied. "But I do know enough to tell you that you two are much more advanced than you realize."

Draco's irritation was clear. "Then tell me."

Blaise hesitated and then stuck part of his hand out of his pocket. Hermione stiffened, but all that was expelled was a weaponless object. It was a small, black obsidian blade fashioned with fine, intricate runes inscribed into its metal. It was charged with the same unnatural strength as the pendant.

"I found this in one of my late-night cameo roles as a police victim tonight," Blaise told her. "Another ex-Death Eater. Same design. Same danger."

A shiver went up her spine. "Who?"

"Theodore Nott."

Draco choked, advancing with fists folded. "Lie to me."

Blaise didn't flinch; at last, there was a look of terror on Blaise's face, and that scared Hermione more than anything else about the knife.

"I wish I were dead," Blaise breathed. "But Nott is dead."

The silence between them was oppressive. Oppressively so. Hermione swallowed down the weight in her throat as she faced around. Two murders. Two reminders. No accidents.

"This is not revenge," she said aloud finally, as if to herself. "They're playing big-time."

The wind had been punched out of Draco's body. "And if they're killing other former Death Eaters, then maybe I'm next."

Blaise nodded. "Or worse: perhaps one of us is already on their list."

The air chilled as if that magic winced at the words he had uttered. Hermione's fingers still tingled from the pendant's residual power. Get a grip! Or it would be too late.

Because if history was to repeat itself, they might not survive this iteration.