Draco was feeling surly again, having revisited the dungeon once again in his dreams. He had the nagging feeling that the dungeon was somehow real, a manifestation of his inner turmoil. Worse still, Hermione Granger had also been present in the dream.
The table was empty this time, with nothing but a single blood red rose sitting innocuously in the center brought into sharp relief from the light from the lighthouse. There were two throne-like chairs this time, and he pulled one out and sat, and waited for what seemed like an eternity. A distinct crack let him know that his beloved had arrived. “Draco, is that…is that for me?” Hermione Granger had just Apparated into the dungeon, and her hair was sleek and loose once more.
“For you,” he heard himself saying, extending the rose towards her. She reached her hand for it, a smile on her face, but the moment the rose was in her grasp, her fingers were dotted with blood.
“No…no…” He leant towards her, horrified at the sight of crimson flowing from her hand. He reached a hand to touch her, to let her know she would be all right, but the blood became ice, and the last thing he saw were her wide frightened eyes as she lay frozen to death, unmoving, dead because of him…
Somehow, this dream was even harder to shake than the one before, and it bothered him more than he would have ever admitted to himself. Now under the bright atmosphere that was the Great Hall, it was hard to believe there was light at all, but the sun descended from the windows and was reflected in the ceiling that was bewitched to reveal the sky.
Conversation poured from all four of the house tables, but he turned a deaf ear to all of it, immersed in his thoughts, his fork hanging limply from his hand.
“What’s that?” Blaise Zabini demanded sharply, his eyes narrowing as an eagle owl dropped a tiny silver box next to Draco’s pumpkin juice. Glad to find a reason to return to the real world, Draco turned his attention to the silver box.
With a sudden childish thrill of what treasures he might unearth from the box, he opened it eagerly. Out fell a ring; black stoned with a ruby in the center and with bumps he realized there was an inscription reading SACRIFICALIS.
“Let me see that,” Zabini said, his eyes round with greed. “It might be goblin-made.” Even Nott’s interest had been piqued, although curiosity did not wear well on him; it made him look all the more like a rabbit. Crabbe and Goyle of course could be counted on for their blank expressions, which just then were alight with interest.
With some reluctance, Draco handed it over. Zabini inspected it closely, as if to detect any obvious value. “You ought to take it to Dervish and Banges, they look at this sort of thing.”
“What, rings?”
“No, just magical objects in general,” sneered Zabini.
Draco pocketed the ring, suddenly feeling apprehensive as to who might have sent it. The Dark Lord came first to mind, but that was highly unlikely. The ring didn’t seem like a dangerous object, but then again, the rose hadn’t seemed dangerous either. Don’t think about that, he thought, furious with himself.
In any case, he thought he might really take it to Dervish and Banges for an inspection, much as he hated taking suggestions from Zabini, seeing as a trip to Hogsmeade had been posted up for next weekend. With only Hogsmeade to look forward to, it was a long week, marred by two more unpleasant chats with Snape and the most homework he had ever been assigned.
On the up side, Draco excelled as a Chaser, managing to place a dozen goals past Nott, who had been recruited to the team as a Keeper over his desire to be a Chaser. Zabini, to Draco’s disgust, had become Seeker and was all the smugger for it when he caught the Snitch within a few minutes. Draco was gratified when Montague told him conspiratorially that Zabini had been the only person to try out for Seeker, however.
So far, he had not managed any close encounters with Granger. He remembered her look of shock when she had bumped into him in the library. He could not honestly recall a more awkward moment. Draco had meant to say something, anything, but he was going through a bit of a silent phase. Words were hard to form, and when they did, they were oddly stilted. There were those odd times, like during Quidditch practice when he felt almost like himself again, but more often than not, he felt hollow and diminished from his former self, which was beginning to feel more and more like a phantom.
“You saw Malfoy in the library?” Harry said for the umpteenth time.
“Yes, in the library,” Hermione said impatiently, and tapped her wand to Disillusion a rat, which squeaked in protest before promptly camouflaging perfectly into the desk. With another tap, the rat was visible once more and scurried away.
Amidst the noise of the Charms classroom, Professor Flitwick was looking a bit harried. Some students were having difficulty seeing their rats after disillusioning them, Ron among them.
“Stupid rat,” Ron grumbled between Harry and Hermione, his hands groping around for it and irresistibly reminding Hermione of Scabbers’s constant departures in their third year. Of course, Scabbers had turned out to be an Animagus and not even a real rat.
“I knew it,” Harry declared triumphantly. “He’s definitely up to something, we’ve got proof!”
“How does being in the library confirm he’s up to anything?”
“That’s easy,” Ron said with a snigger. “Who else goes to the library but you? Nobody else is that keen on well, learning.”
Hermione gave him a very nasty look before facing Harry again, about to regale him about how she had bumped into Malfoy and his seeming inability for speech, but stopped herself. Somehow, she’d rather keep that to herself, and Harry would probably read too much into the “up to something” factor.
“Here,” Harry said, choosing to ignore the minor spat between them. Hermione stared at the aged parchment in his hand with widened eyes.
“What, no! The Marauder’s Map, Harry? Is that really necessary?”
“Well,” Harry said slyly, “I didn’t ask you to do it, but from now on, I’m going to keep my eye on where he is, who he’s with, what’s he doing.”
Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Haven’t you got enough to be getting on with? You’re barely keeping up with your homework, and you’ve got Quidditch practices and such.”
Harry grinned, dropping the Marauder’s Map in front of her. Ron raised an eyebrow as he struggled to hold his grasp onto his rat, which he had mercifully found lurking the edge of the desk. “Aren’t you getting, I dunno, a bit obsessed with Malfoy?”
The grin fell off Harry’s face like a ripped bandage. “He’s up to something, and I’m counting on you to find out what it is, Hermione.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, and tapped her wand again to Disillusion her rat once more. The truth was, she was as interested as Harry about what Malfoy was up to, because she was sure Harry was right. Malfoy was up to something.
Hogsmeade looked as picturesque as ever, now with autumn leaves strewn on the trails and the roofs. Draco sought Dervish and Banges alone, feeling he would rather find out the mysteries of the ring himself. He had never actually been inside Dervish and Banges, which was overshadowed by the more vibrant-looking outsides of Three Broomsticks and Honeydukes. Dervish and Banges was a good distance away from Draco’s two favorite Hogsmeade places, and it was with some relief that he stepped into the store, glad to have finally found it.
A wizened old man wearing askew glasses and a pointed wizard’s hat greeted him jovially, reminding him absurdly of Harry Potter. “How can I help you, young sir?”
Draco took a good look inside the store, which was much more colorful inside than out. Sneakoscopes occupied a whole shelf alone in different sizes, and unknown objects sparkled, jumped, and shrieked, all of their own accord.
“It’s this ring,” he said, reaching for it from his robes. “I got it in the post, and I was wondering whether there are any special properties to it.”
“Special properties,” echoed the wizened wizard, giving it a cursory glance and straightening his glasses to properly examine it. “Let’s see…well, it’s almost certainly goblin-made, with dust-repelling qualities. This increases its value, certainly. Do you have any idea who would send you this through the post?”
“No,” Draco replied so quickly that the wizened wizard stared. “I mean, I don’t know who sent me it.”
“Well, it’s valuable, I daresay. And what’s this? An inscription…it says ‘Sacrificalis’…If I’m not mistaken, that sounds decidedly Latin for Sacrifice, but I’ll have to check with a colleague…I’m not really one for languages, see. This is curious, indeed. Goblin-made things don’t usually have inscriptions, unless they’re specially made, you know.”
“And the magical properties?” prompted Draco.
“As to that, my dear boy, I cannot be sure. ‘Sacrificalis’ sounds a bit like ‘sacrifice’. A most curious object, this is. It’s finely made.” The wizened wizard made a motion to hand the ring back to Draco, who was beginning to feel that the visit to Dervish and Banges had been pointless. The wizard paused, and an excited gleam flitted in his eyes. “Unless…surely not…surely not…” he said.
“Surely not what?” Draco snapped, sounding much more like himself.
“The fabled Ring of Sacrifice was made in the seventeenth century. Given to someone, and should that someone find themselves in a dire, life-threatening situation, they would escape death, and pass on the evaded death to the giver of the ring…but alas, I cannot be sure. It is a fabled ring, after all, and I’m not even certain whether ‘Sacrificalis’ means sacrifice. I’d check that, if I were you, young sir.”
“Can you give it to someone after you’ve used it?” he asked keenly, riveted by the ring that was now his.
“As to that, I cannot be sure…it is only a legend, after all. If I were you, I’d take care of this ring.”
Draco accepted the ring and pocketed it once more, thinking hard. The wizard had certainly given him something to think about. The Ring of Sacrifice…that was intriguing, but offered no more hint as to who it could be from, and if it was indeed the Ring of Sacrifice…well, who would give him such a precious, valuable object?