POV: Lucius Malfoy
The day began with a bad premonition that Lucius Malfoy tried vainly to swat away like a bothersome fly. Everything had been planned with his usual pedantry: Arcturus was to Portkey into the Ministry's International Arrivals Hall in the morning, where the house-elf Dobby would be waiting to assist with luggage and escort him home.
But 10:00 passed. Then eleven. By noon, Narcissa's lips were pressed into a thin, white line. Lucius believed his wife was being overly dramatic — just a delay, albeit an irritating one.
At precisely noon, Dobby appeared in the dining room with a deafening crack. The elf was trembling all over, his enormous eyes flooding with panic.
"M-master! The young master has not come… he isn't there! Dobby waited… waited long-long! He isn't there! Dobby is a bad elf! Bad!"
Lucius, without changing his icy expression, struck the house-elf on the head with a sharp flick of his cane, venting the accumulated irritation he couldn't pour out any other way. Because of this stupid delay, his entire schedule of affairs was flying to pieces.
"Wretch! To fail such a simple task!" His voice was cold as steel, but deep inside, a worm of anxiety had already begun to stir. "Binny!" At the call, the second of the house-elves materialized instantly. "Go to the Ministry. Wait there for Arcturus and do not return without him."
Binny nodded silently and vanished. Lucius seethed with fury. If it turned out this nerve-wracking delay was merely his son's whim — a son who had become far too willful of late — he would certainly take his upbringing in hand. He would take it in hand… with harsher methods.
"Lucius, where is he?" Narcissa's voice, full of restrained, and therefore only more terrifying, anger, made even the air in the room tremble. "He should not have been late."
"Calm yourself, Narcissa," Lucius replied, not taking his eyes off the fireplace where logs crackled cheerfully. "He was likely delayed by lengthy farewells. Or perhaps a compelling reason arose to stay another day. In any case, we will soon receive a letter from the Millefeuilles."
Lucius even entertained the thought that the owl carrying the Portkey and the official authentication letter might have been waylaid and simply returned. The chance, of course, was minuscule, but it would explain much. Especially the fact that the owl hadn't brought anything back. And then the elder Malfoy's mind finally focused on a detail: the bird that delivered the key had been slightly bedraggled. But that sometimes happened… No need to panic over trifles. Wasn't there?
The following hours dragged on agonizingly slowly. Narcissa was restless, her elegant fingers unconsciously crumpling the edges of her silk dress. She paced the hall, her imagination painting the most terrible pictures. Lucius, however, continued to pretend everything was under control. It was dangerous when a daughter of the House of Black was unsettled. Narcissa Black was capable of the most desperate and irrational acts for her children, and Lucius was straining to maintain icy calm so as not to inflame her further. Especially considering how dangerous the Black family curse was, merely waiting for a chance to flare up in any Black.
Their hopes, however, were dealt a crushing blow closer to evening. An owl arrived, dark as night itself — Dart, their eldest son's personal post bird. At first, this was even reassuring, but there was no letter. Could the boy have sent the owl just to have it reach home? The bird looked positively exhausted.
"Perhaps the owl with his letter about the delay will arrive soon," he pronounced, but his own arguments sounded increasingly strained and false.
Nothing. Their son, always so punctual and foresighted, had not only failed to return but remained without a means of communication? Unlikely. The only logical explanation could be that the owl had been sent before plans changed. But what were the odds… It was time to sound the alarm.
Lucius could no longer conceal his anxiety. A short, yet laced with hidden panic and sharp-edged threats, letter was immediately composed and dispatched to the Millefeuille family.
The reply came by dawn, and it was worse than any nightmare. Isabelle Millefeuille wrote that Arcturus had left them exactly yesterday morning, right after breakfast, using that very Portkey — the silver coin with intricate carvings, which had arrived to them… literally the day before his departure. Along with a tawny owl. She also expressed her deepest concern and readiness to assist.
But Lucius's thoughts fixated on one thing: he had sent the key three days prior, as agreed! He had personally sent one of the owls from their owlery, and he distinctly remembered the owl being grey, like most birds at Malfoy Manor. Their postal owls were quite fast, typically delivering letters from England to France within five hours.
That was when everyone realized the scale of the catastrophe. Something terrible had happened, and they had already lost a vast amount of time in which much could have been done. The hypotheses were each worse than the last, as there were no good ones left. What if someone had swapped the Portkey? If before the letter from the Millefeuilles the worst-case scenario seemed the negligence of incompetent artifact makers, losing their son, which was monstrous enough… now…
Someone had intercepted the owl first, then attempted to forge a Portkey, even making a similar form — apparently, insurance in case the form was mentioned in the letter.
Narcissa didn't tear her hair out — she froze, like a statue of white marble, but in her eyes raged such a storm of despair and primal fury that it was frightening to behold. Lucius, however, acted with icy resolve. All his authority, all his connections, all his old debts were called in. The Ministry of Magic was turned upside down. Dozens of employees, from those responsible for Portkeys to workers in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, scoured the earth to find his son. Not to mention the private investigators and part of the security for their family enterprises, also thrown into the search for the slightest clue.
Simultaneously, Lucius, of course, conversed with Alain Millefeuille and Isabelle Millefeuille via the Floo network. It was a complex and cumbersome scheme. Since a direct connection over such distances was impossible, with such important partners they had built an expensive but effective logistics system to maintain live contact. They had long ago created a chain of a dozen trusted fireplaces, linked by stable but fragile charms, creating a semblance of a magical bridge. The connection was intermittent, and in the largest gap between the Island and the continent, magical interference raged, not to mention the impossibility of direct fireplace travel, but communication was still possible. And now it was needed as never before.
This was how Lucius learned every detail necessary for the investigators. The official letter he had sent, the perpetrator apparently hadn't even opened, likely to avoid breaking the magical seal of his signet ring, so the French had no suspicions. Another important detail was the form and appearance of the Portkey, which by description wasn't drastically different from the creation of the master who made the Portkey, but was still different.
Yet all these people could do nothing. All their methods were futile attempts to grasp at phantom straws. Several detection rituals were also performed, attempts to send letters via owls — but nothing revealed Arcturus's location. Clearly, powerful masking charms had been applied, since he couldn't be found even by the most desperate means… Though, if not for their son's manic fondness for purification rituals, they might have found a hair or any other bodily particle for more complex, but effective, blood-based tracking rituals.
Eventually, after some time, even Aurors were involved, and on the Millefeuille side, inquiries were sent to magical communities in France. And on the other side of the Channel, intensive searches for the Malfoy heir also began.
And so, coordinating their actions and tirelessly gathering shreds of information, the Malfoy family searched for their heir, and the Millefeuille family — for the guest entrusted to them, and perhaps future son-in-law. He remained a trusted guest until the moment of his return home, which never happened, and so they too threw all their connections and power into finding any lead in this incident.
***
POV: Arcturus Malfoy
A deafening ring filled my ears, as if an anvil were being struck inside them. My eardrums burned, a thin stream of blood trickled from my nose, and my eyes wouldn't stop watering, veiling the world in a blurred, watery haze. But through this sonic chaos, through the roar rising from the depths of consciousness, I caught familiar words:
"Petrificus Totalus!"
With a corner of my foggy mind, I even thought it might just be an echo in my head, for the ringing was all-consuming, and everything seemed to be happening under a thickness of water. Perhaps it was just a miracle, but my pain-riddled body reacted again on its own — with an instinctive, sharp movement, I threw myself sideways. The sticky wetness of blood on my palms made me slip, but with a desperate effort of will, I kept my balance, managing to glimpse with my battered eyes as the light of the paralyzing curse shot past centimeters from my body.
And in that moment, an invisible switch clicked inside me.
The panic that had been choking my throat all these endless seconds retreated, replaced by a freezing, crystal-clear, and ruthless calm. An instantaneous assessment of the situation, and thoughts began to race through my head: no wand, body wounded and exhausted, meaning strength is running out. They want me dead at worst, so there's only one option left.
And then, as if from the darkness itself, another volley of curses flew at me. Simultaneously and from different directions. Bright flashes seemed dull through the veil in my eyes, the world swam and swirled in a vortex, but I was already temporarily, though half-blind, so it hardly mattered. All the curses were aimed precisely at me, from well-calculated positions. So, there were several opponents. Three? Four? More? And this time, I was clearly not up against my peers or simple schoolchildren. This was a coordinated attack by adult wizards.
I sharply thrust my hand forward, which now was a mess of blood, dust, and abrasions. Desperate fear for my life forced me to pour a great deal of power into my defense. I created a massive semi-dome of pure magic before me. I poured into it as much magic as I possibly could, as fast as I could.
Spells crashed into it with a roar. The shield barely flinched with each hit; apparently, these weren't as powerful as that first curse that had nearly smashed me into the cave wall. A moment of respite dawned, and I could finally take my first full, though rasping, breath of this fight.
My eyes gradually began to adjust to the semi-darkness and the trauma, and my vision slowly but surely returned after the overload from the botched Portkey. Adrenaline burned fiercely in my veins, drowning out the fiery signals from my torn palms and knees, from my dislocated shoulder and numerous bruises. I scanned the place of my possible demise. A cave… a real stone trap. The only light source was somewhere ahead, behind the backs of my still-invisible opponents. So, the exit was there. And they had seen me from the start.
I continued feeding the shield magic, feeling it draining my reserves, but I needed a breather to think. After the first attack came a hail of lighter spells, from the basic Expelliarmus to other, non-maiming ones. Why then, at the start, try to kill me? I really could have died or been seriously maimed.
Simultaneously with these thoughts, as if in mockery, that same crimson curse that had nearly broken half my body at the very beginning erupted from the darkness. It struck the center of my shield with enough force to almost breach such sturdy protection. I barely had time to jump aside before the residual force of the curse would have hammered me into the ground.
In the same instant, a new barrage of lighter spells — Stunning, Banishing, Binding — rained down on me.
My opponents weren't all-powerful, as they kept shouting out some of the spells. And now I could confidently say. There were three of them. Three adult wizards, moving toward me, cornering me. Their silhouettes became clearer, outlined against the light from the passage. Their clothing was simply dark, without insignia. I just didn't understand yet — did they want me dead or not?
In any case, I would lose something important if I lost here, perhaps the most valuable thing — my life. I had to act. Right now! I had to find my wand, because without it, I could only barely defend myself, but counterattacking was pointless. Well, maybe throw some rocks, but that would tire me quickly and wouldn't kill them.
Time stretched out immensely… each moment lasted an eternity. I darted around the cave like a hunted animal, relying only on intuition and reflexes. My body, tormented by pain, moved poorly; I didn't even try to move on two legs. I just dodged as best I could. Every movement was subordinated to a single goal: survive and get back to where I fell. My wand might be lying somewhere there.
I scrambled on all fours, made sharp lunges, limping on two legs, fell, and surged forward again.
Defending with only a shield of pure magic, I managed to see them and the space around better. Their faces were still not visible, especially in this half-light. The dim light from the distant entrance only caught silhouettes, offering no hope of escape on my own two feet, as the enemies were precisely from that side.
Almost on all fours, my outstretched hand continuously fed the trembling magical barrier, which weakened with each blow. Another barrage of spells — and the shield was almost breached, crumbling in a shower of sparks. Followed by a gust of strong wind hitting the shield. Apparently a strong Ventus or an analogue. Thankfully, I pressed myself to the floor, feeling sharp stones dig into my wounds, but I didn't care.
This way I could reduce the shield's area, making it both stronger and less draining, and lessening the chance of being hit while my bloody fingers tried to feel for my wand. At some point, my fingers brushed against the familiar carving on the shaft. My wand! It lay a little beyond where I had fallen. My hands, dust-covered and caked with dirty, clotted blood, settled on the wand so calmly…
The world regained clarity for me. Despair finally retreated, replaced by cold resolve. It was time to respond.
Now that I had my wand and my eyes could at least see them normally, the light semi-darkness didn't hinder the fight; in fact, this semi-darkness could be used. And the question now was only in the difference between spell modifiers. How does the Maxima modifier differ from Duo, Tria, and so on.
Thanks to the Maxima modification, a spell could be made just slightly stronger than the usual version, or many times, even orders of magnitude, more powerful than with the Tria modification, which only tripled the charm's power. That's why not every spell had such a modification, because the spell's formula couldn't always support a large amount of magic for the same effect, only amplified. One could say not every spell was optimized enough to deliver an enhanced effect through greater power. So, Lumos Maxima was essentially just a Lumos that could be made as strong as one's magical power and control allowed. Without strong control, you couldn't channel much magic.
I flung my wand arm upward, and a silent Lumos Maxima caught my opponents off guard. I poured into it all my might, all my fury and pain. The power of hundreds, and in terms of expenditure, a whole thousand Lumos spells… This wasn't just a ball of light. Oh no, this was an explosion of blinding power. All-consuming whiteness filled the cave, burning away shadows and threatening to sear the retinas of those who hadn't managed to cover their eyes in time, as eyelids wouldn't be enough. I had squeezed my eyes shut in advance, ducking my head, but even so, my eyes felt the scorching force of the flash. Screams and curses, full of pain and confusion, were heard.
The light vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. In the instantaneous darkness that now seemed even thicker, I lunged forward toward my satchel, simultaneously applying a force push with my hand, scattering the dust cloud and slightly stunning one of the enemies. Limping, barely feeling my legs, I unleashed a barrage of spells on the nearest enemy, the one closest to me and the satchel.
Slightly blinded by the explosion of my improvised flashbang, he instinctively created a Protego Duo, but this wasn't an elegant duel. This was a fight to the death. And I had already told Death — not today.
A combination of amplified Flipendo, Stupefy, Stunning spells. And so three times in a row within two seconds, with final fiery projectiles aimed at the other two opponents to buy me time.
For the first time in my life, I was fighting not for my life, but against death. The Protego Duo couldn't withstand the final combo, but the enemy immediately cast a Protego, even without seeing properly. Commendable training.
"Verdimillious!" I hissed quietly, and a green burst of sparks flew at the opponent. The spell was slow, three times slower than a speedy Expelliarmus, but powerful and attention-grabbing. In the couple of moments' difference, behind the cloud of magical sparks, I sent the most dangerous of my spells: Sectum.
The Dark curse, unlike its common cutting cousin, Diffindo, was capable of a far more potent and deadly effect. They don't teach that in school.
When the enemy, blinking, managed to notice the buzzing mass of energy flying toward him, there was only time to reinforce the already placed Protego, but it was barely enough for the shield to hold, receiving a powerful blow.
Only, in that same instant, like a shadow, slid the real attack. The combat variant of the cutting Diffindo couldn't be easily healed. It literally tore, slashed the body, no worse than a sword in skilled hands. The enemy's reinforced Protego, weakened by the previous strike, offered no resistance. The curse sliced through the defense and with monstrous force bit into his chest cavity.
This wasn't a clean cut. It was… dismemberment. And my eyes captured this moment so vividly, as if there were no semi-darkness. Everything mixed in blood. An inarticulate, gurgling rasp sounded. I saw his body literally fall apart in two; under the weight of the upper part, the cut gaped open. The torn dark fabric of the robe stretched for a moment, soaked crimson, before the nearly bisected body collapsed onto the stone floor with a disgusting splat. His torso opened up like a flower, revealing all the body's secrets: The robe fabric that hid the skin. The skin that hid the blood and flesh. The muscles that hid the bones. And even the organs, which should have been under the reliable protection of ribs, showed themselves, as if trying to crawl out of the body. Soon the air would carry a sharp, very strong, coppery smell of blood, overpowering the dust and dampness.
Only the spine hadn't been horrifyingly cleaved by the powerful Sectum. Or should the curse have been that powerful? Or did I just aim well?
For a second, a tomb-like silence reigned in my head, broken only by the thought that there were still two living wizards around. No, enemies. The hunter had become the prey. And the prey had turned into death.