[P]eople always saw his brother when they looked at him; it was the high cheekbones, straight nose, grey eyes. They never say him – but who was he? Sirius' little brother? – he wasn't worth their time. Head down, hair covering his face, walking quickly through the corridors – he becomes his green and silver striped tie, no longer even a person – he is an easy target for the hexes aimed his way. He keeps to the shadows as he walks, unwilling to attract any more attention than necessary – he cannot be late.
[U]nder the scornful eye of his cousin, he sits, posture befitting of a pureblood – she had always preferred his brother; stubborn, proud, a true Black. She looks down on him as he sipped his drink – she is dangerous beauty; seductive power; innocent nightmares – he never stood a chance.
[R]unning his finger around the rim of his glass, he attempts to hide the trembling of his hands; she sees it anyway – in her eyes he is unworthy; he is nothing more than a child – she wishes there was someone else in his place, someone with the same high cheekbones, straight nose, grey eyes. She looks at him in disdain – she does not think he can do this – he will prove her wrong.
[E]mptying the rest of his glass in one mouthful, he meets her eyes defiantly – she need not know how unsure he feels; how scared; how fragile. He is almost her equal now; he will prove his strength and dedication with time. He will make his parents proud; be the perfect son; forever remove the memory of The Disappointment – he accepts her offer.
[B]eneath her trademark Black sneer he can sense her surprise; she had always thought him weak; cowardly; naive. He is all of those things, and yet he is not – he is manipulated independence; successful failure; softened strength. He stands, letting the glass fall and shatter, he is taller than her now – he looks down on her.
[L]owering her head in a slow nod, she acknowledges his acceptance – she knows when to back down. He has grown up; aged from boy to man without her realising and it worries her a little – he should not have ages so quickly. He has become everything a Black should be; he is powerful; stubborn; proud – he will do well.
[O]pening the clasp of her thick leather cuff, she bares her left forearm; the faint mark emits a powerful aura; dark magic; hatred; danger. She presses her wand into her flesh, hissing as the mark comes alive, burning through her veins like FiendFire and calling to her master – he can feel its power.
[O]bsidian black cloaks swirl around the half-dozen or so figures Apparating into the room; the silence becomes more oppressive; deadly; suffocating. He keeps his head held high, he does not allow any traces of fear or doubt to cross his face – he is unafraid.
[D]eath or a lifetime of servitude – the answer is simple. He is a Slytherin; a Pureblood; a Black. He takes the mark; he is a Death Eater now – he has a purpose.