"I follow him to serve my turn upon him.
We cannot all be masters, nor all masters
Cannot be truly followed." 1.1
Iago in Shakespeare's 'Othello'
There is no moment of realisation.
It's a process. There are long term causes, short term causes, and best of all; a spark. That's how it's all supposed to work, right?
That's what it seemed like for me.
So how did I begin to realise that the Dark Lord, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, You Know Who, Lord Voldemort himself, was not the idol I had worshipped and adored for so many years? I would love to tell you that it was simple. I would love to say I had a sudden epiphany, and I saw the error of my ways and how to atone for my sins. But I did not. It happened as a result of the long term causes, the short term causes, the spark. Yes. That spark. Perhaps that was the only glorious element of my realisation. And the outcome of that realisation? Well, that has to be saved for later. I don't want to give the best and most magnificent chapter of my story away now, do I?
In my youth, I admired the dark arts, and wanted to be among the great dark wizards as other children wanted to be aurors. I had this hero complex about men such as Emeric the Evil and Merwyn the Malicious. I think I might have been one of the only students in the year that paid attention in History of Magic lessons.
But no, my obsession grew beyond mere school work. Encouraged by my parents, who, in comparison to my perhaps more decent, rebellious brother, doted upon me, I became more engaged in my study of the dark arts. Though that was all I was involved in; study. I loved admiring the dark arts. I loved its secrets, its mystery, and I admit, its sense of righteousness. We, the pure, deserved to rule, as we were not corrupted like the other dregs of humanity. That was what I thought, what we all thought, and indeed many still do.
I remember the day when the dark arts completely seduced me. The day that my study transcended mere theory and my practical study began. My friends (for want of a better word) arrived at the front door of my parents' house in the dead of night, barely a month after I had received my, naturally phenomenal, NEWT results- for all they counted for; they may as well have been all Ts.
I had not known Mulciber, Avery, and Rosier for very long, yet towards the end of their time in Hogwarts, I began to gravitate towards them and a few others, such as Snape, Lestrange, and Wilkes, as I knew of their involvement in the arts which had completely seduced me. It was the first three who appeared at the door that night.
Kreacher awoke me, and I walked sluggishly to the door with my wand alight, and stared at them all, dumbstruck and bleary-eyed. I had not seen them since their last day at Hogwarts, and even then we had not separated as completely bosom friends, more close acquaintances. I could barely identify them, as their faces were almost fully in the dark. The effect was that their faces were almost skull-like, or had the appearance of a mask.
"Enjoying a quiet night in, Black?" crowed Rosier, smirking. Rosier, being the tallest of the three, was clearly the ringleader in this small band of men. I noticed Kreacher shifting his feet nervously beside the door, wringing the rags he was wearing with his small, thin hands.
"Please leave us, Kreacher" I said quietly to the elf, and he immediately obeyed with a deep bow. I turned to my three visitors ", what is it you are here for?"
"We know of somebody you might like to meet." said Rosier, and his tone was grave now, with no sign of a joke. His wingmen behind him stirred slightly.
"Who?" I shot back at him. Mulciber moved again, and coughed. A chink of the light which came from the wand I held found its way onto his face, and I nearly recoiled. His face, which had always been reminiscent of a pig, had taken on a gaunt quality. This was not improved by the small smile which 'graced' his face. Rosier sighed theatrically, and smiled at his cronies, rolling his eyes.
"You must have heard of him. Whispers of our new leader, ring any bells?" Avery cut in, sticking his long nose so far ahead, that it too found its way into the wand light, creating the strange image of a floating pale nose in the darkness. Rosier hissed something at Avery, which I couldn't hear exactly. Avery stepped back, affronted.
"I…think I have heard some rumours, yes." I said stiffly. And so I had; by then, tales of a man had indeed circulated amongst the Black family. A man who promised to purify us all. A man who some had already begun to rally around. Evidently, Rosier, Avery, and Mulciber were some of these.
And so, I went with them. How could I not, when even my own family spoke of this Dark Lord with close to reverential tones? Father had just that morning, behind his newspaper, barked his disapproval of our deteriorating society, and how such a man would do far better than the drones in power at that time.
I had been romanced that very night by the group. It seemed to adhere to all of my idle adolescent dreams and parental expectations. The man spoke with such cold clarity, that one could not help but worship. I apparated alongside Rosier into a lonely and derelict manor house on the outskirts of some city, and I was not allowed to learn the location until much later. The mystery had already begun to draw me in. I was greeted with cordiality, and given praise and thanks, I was made to believe that what I was becoming part of was something great, something monumental. Now, I know otherwise.
I was branded with the mark, and from that point onward, my life was altered in a way which I could never have anticipated. My admiration for the dark arts was tested, and in due course, it held for a long time. But that admiration could only stand so much, and eventually, as of course you know, It started to wane.
The long term causes of this cannot be easily pinpointed. I suppose it was a few small events that can be stringed together in my mind which helped to chip away at my idolisation of this man, the Dark Lord. One event in particular sticks out in my mind.
I had been serving the Dark Lord amongst my fellow Death Eaters (for that had become our name, of sorts) for around six months. Proudly too, I might add. And what did 'serving' entail, you ask? I'm sure you've heard the rumours. Killing, torturing, blackmailing…anything that happened upon our Master's fancy. I felt I had gained 'friends'. And yes, Rosier, Avery, and Mulciber were the merry band with whom I went on 'adventures'. And this event was one of those.
It was in March, and the breath of winter had not quite dissipated from the country, and it could be felt all the more potently in the place where we had been instructed to go to, that is, on the island of Mull, in Scotland. We were told to seek out a muggle-born journalist who'd written slander and vilification against our Master in the most recent Prophet. And for that, this poor whelp, this Gregory Sinclair was completely and utterly doomed.
We apparated at the door of a lonely little stone cottage, which stood bravely against the wrath of the wind which howled and roared at it, trying with all its might to bring it down. Perhaps it needed some help from us.
"Here we go then, boys!" boomed Rosier jovially from under his black hooded cloak. We all laughed accordingly, and Rosier knocked on the door of the cottage three times.
No answer.
He knocked twice again. The same result came from it. This time, having lost what little patience he possessed, Rosier kicked the door, and to his surprise, his foot went through the rotted wood.
"Shit!" He screamed, and Mulciber immediately doubled up, wheezing with laughter. Rosier, with a little trouble, pulled his food out of the door and rounded on Mulciber.
"What the fuck is so funny?" said Rosier, in a dangerously quiet voice which somehow resounded over the sound of the wind.
"Sorry," Mumbled Mulciber, straightening up. He sniffed, and wiped his eyes.
"I'm glad you're sorry. We aren't here for laughs."
He sure could have fooled me.
Eventually, Rosier managed to force the door open. One-by-one, we entered a dank, dingy room, with one roughly hewn wooden table in its centre surrounded by four stools. A modest, unfinished supper of bread and cheese still lay on its surface. But what gave Gregory Sinclair away was the blue fire, burning blithely in a dirty jar on the window sill.
"Here's here." Breathed Avery in his characteristically nasal tone. Rosier pulled a mock face of understanding and nodded towards the entrance to the next room, though which only darkness could be seen. He thumped me on the back, and I felt an ice cold chill rack my body out of fear and anticipation. I did not dispute Rosier's instruction. I crept slowly forward, cursing the sounds of my feet made on the flagstones. I heard Rosier's rasp whisper behind my start up again. He had made it impossible to apparate from the cottage. That was, now I think about it, rather pointless. The man would have left if he wanted to by now; Rosier had not exactly been as quiet as a phantom before.
I walked on, nonetheless. By the time I had reached the entrance to the next room, I began to detect a noise of laboured breathing, and it was clear that the occupant was finding it difficult to conceal it. The room had a strange scent, as if the occupant had not left for many years. This was not what I was expecting. The man had written in the Daily Prophet, and this did not seem the place for an uppity journalist to live in. I turned to the three men behind me who waited with bated breath. I gave one short nod to them, whispered a quick lumos, and headed inside. The light barely pierced the thick darkness at all.
"Do your worst." a hoarse voice with a thick accent sounded from the corner of the room. I took a sharp intake of breath in surprise, and beckoned to the other three over my shoulder.
"I would if I could see you, sir." I managed to say, squinting into the room to locate the source of the voice. The next second, I found this was no longer necessary, as a sharp flare of light illuminated the room, as the man had lit his wand.
"My pleasure." He grunted. I now had a full view of the room. In this tiny room, just around three single beds had been crammed, allowing room for a rocking chair in the corner. The man who I presumed was Gregory Sinclair sat in the chair.
He was dirty beyond comprehension, so dirty that it was difficult to immediately distinguish him from the grey stone background in front of which he sat. His straggly, iron grey hair speckled with brown was long and matted, accompanied by a bushy grey beard. His skin with almost equally as grey, and the wrinkles which adorned his face looked like crumpled parchment. His clothes, while being typical office robes, were just as bedraggled.
"Your pleasure sir? I think you'll be finding it's ours." snarled Rosier, pushing me into the door frame, almost winding me.
"If this is what you need to be happy, then so be it." Sinclair sighed.
"What is that meant to mean?" Rosier said, looking bemused.
"If you think clever words will help you now, then that's where you're wrong, mister!" Avery sneered, obviously proud of his 'quick' retort.
The old man barked a laugh, which sounded much more like a cough, yet the folds that appeared at the corners of his eyes told of amusement.
"You have a lot to learn, boy. Maybe you'll never learn it."
I was not sure if the others noticed it, but I could discern, (not easily, from the dirt on his face) what I thought were tears in his eyes. I could not help but pity him. He was dangerously thin, and he shook violently from the cold.
"Enough with this. To business, Mr. Sinclair." Rosier stated, his voice taking on a hollow, formal quality.
"Glad to hear it, boy." Sinclair nodded shortly.
"We are here in response of an article in the Daily Prophet."
Sinclair folded his hands in his lap, considering Rosier.
"I thought you would, right enough. You took your time."
In response to that, Mulciber snorted derisively. Rosier shot him a look of warning.
"You wrote this yourself?"
"Sent it in by owl myself." Sinclair confirmed, smiling faintly.
"Then you know what to expect," Rosier smirked, and turned to me "Could you do the honours, Black?"
Mulciber and Avery sniggered again, waiting for my reaction. I swallowed, finding my throat dry. I was not usually the one to carry out the deed. Rosier was the one to take the spotlight in most cases. I nodded, remaining silent.
"We'll be going then," Rosier smiled in a way that was so calm it was threatening "Come on,"
They left, following behind Rosier, presumably to wait outside the cottage. Mulciber cast me a gleeful look, and Avery hissed, "Good luck, Black."
When the door of the cottage slammed shut behind them, all that remained was an almost deafening silence. I turned to look at Gregory Sinclair. His calm smile made my stomach churn.
"So, whose line is it then?" He chuckled quietly. I stepped towards him, trying to tower over him in an intimidating way. I ignored his remark.
"Who else lives here?" I asked, glancing at the other two beds.
"No one." He answered quickly, suddenly defensive. I took some more steps forward, and I narrowed my eyes at him, willing myself to feel some form of hatred for that pathetic little man.
"Are you sure about that one?" I challenged him, and I lifted my lit wand to point into his face. He closed his eyes.
"Kill me, sir, do what you will. Just don't ask that, please." He whispered. I felt a strong surge of pity for him, but reminded myself of what I had to do.
"We will find them, in any case." I tried to imitate the Dark Lord's high cold laugh, but unsuccessfully. It simply sounded girlish.
"You won't tell them" Gregory Sinclair opened his eyes, and looked me squarely in the face ", you are not the same as them."
My eyes widened at the strength of his gaze.
"If you knew what was good for you, you'd stick to the subject." I hissed.
"You are no barbarian. You, boy, do not belong to the devils." He laughed.
"You speak like a muggle." My voice rose in volume hysterically, the wand which was pointed in his face shivered, ever so slightly. Cold sweat began to drench my forehead.
"One day, you'll realise that isn't the worst quality there is," the man's taunting smile widened "perhaps you already know."
"AVADA KEDAVRA!" I shrieked. Green light flooded the small room, momentarily making it appear as if it were lit by brilliant daylight.
The man slumped in his chair; a small smile still remained on his face.
I left the stone cottage, and did not speak a word until we had left that godforsaken place. The words of the old man haunted me thereafter. That was one of the long term causes. The seed was planted in my head. My sense of self-righteousness had started to erode. Maybe the 'career' I had always wanted was not the dream I had imagined.
A/N: I did this for a challenge on HPFF, and I know I'm being bad because I should be working on 'Tears of a Clown', but that shall remain my main baby :') Still, I'll be carrying on with this, and it'll be short. I've always felt some sympathy towards Regulus, because of the way he almost had to die, and he was quite young when he died too. I think he was, in the main, fundamentally good. Anyway. I hope you've enjoyed this, and please review, and tell me anything I could improve on!
