Sixteen-year-old Eglantine Bertrand had never been entirely sure that it was legal for her to drive, but legality was not a particular concern of hers as she wended her way through the heavily-rutted cow roads that served as a frequent shortcut to her uncle Crevan's open fields. You couldn't always do what was legal, and anyway, legal didn't mean "safe." Her brother Bertie had always done what was legal, and he was dead.
Maybe one day she would just be driving down the street and inadvertently run over the bastards who killed him. That'd be nice: karma literally doing them in, in the form of a ten-year-old Muggle machine painted a nauseous shade of pumpkin. It'd be poetic justice. Or maybe she would just learn how to kill them herself.
She hit a straight, flat stretch of dirt road and sped up. The engine of the Sunbeam Alpine roared, and her sister Camilla – she'd entirely forgotten that Cam was even there – gasped and tensed up. Her blue eyes were as wide as if she'd just seen a dragon.
"Slow down, Tina! You'll crash."
"Into what, exactly?" she snapped. "We're in an open field."
"I dunno. Trees," Cam muttered sullenly. "How can you see anything?"
"The headlights, obviously."
Cam sighed. She'd never ridden in the car before, and Eglantine thought it would probably take some persuading for her to try it again. "They're not bright enough. This is weird. I don't like it."
"Merlin's beard, Cam, it's safer than a broom. Think about it – no possibility of getting struck by lightning, or having a bird fly into your head, or being sucked into an airplane's engine, or even having a bug fly up your nose."
"We're on the ground. It's rumbly. It's not natural."
"The fact that you're twenty-one years old and still wearing the same Alice band you wore when you were ten, that'snot natural." Eglantine mashed the button to turn the radio on, and the opening bars of Baba O'Riley flooded the car. "This is what's called fun."
Cam didn't say anything as Eglantine attempted donuts in the field, and rolled the windows down and sang along with The Who, "We're all wasted!" She simply sat there, silent, gripping the seat and trying not to scream.
"Get the stick out of your ass and enjoy it, would you?"
"I have to work tomorrow," Cam said testily. "I have to be home by nine-thirty at least."
"So go home. Nobody's stopping you."
"Are you mad? I can't just leave you here in the middle of a field in this Muggle death machine. It'll explode or something, and then Mum will make me explode, after she made me explain where you got the car, who enchanted it so Crevan and Alya couldn't see it, and why we were joyriding like maniacs across his fields. And," she added as an afterthought, "I'd most definitely lose my job."
"First of all, these things don't explode; only in the movies. But you've only ever seen Singin' in the Rain, so I don't know what you're so scared of. And secondly, you work for Mel. She's not about to see her own cousin fired because you stayed out past nine-thirty with your own sister and maybe had a little fun and maybe showed up late to work."
"You didn't say anything about me being late to work when you asked me to come out with you! Why on earth am I going to be late?"
Eglantine grinned.
"Come on, Tina, I hate it when you smile like that. It means you're up to something. What are you going to make me do?" She gasped. "No. I am not going to a disco with you again. That was awful."
"You're the only person I know who can call fun awful. We got to meet a band!"
"Correction, you made out with a band. Ugh." Cam shuddered. "He smelled. And he was all tattooed and just…disgusting. He kept calling me 'mate.' I'm not his mate! Nor did I want to mate with him. And we nearly had the brooms stolen." Cam was already taking off her Alice band in a resigned sort of way, shaking her hair out and reaching for her purse to start applying makeup – Eglantine thought that some private part of Cam actually did want to go to the disco. Personally, she'd wanted to go to the cinema, but what the hell.
"I didn't think he was that exceptional either way." Eglantine went up a gear and made towards the main road. "I don't even remember his name."
"And I didn't get the glitter out of my hair for—" Cam put her purse down. "Stop. I'm serious, stop the car."
She held out her arm, and, obediently, Eglantine stopped, because now that she wasn't looking at the road, she saw what Cam saw. Above the silhouette of their uncle's estate, black and distant now against the navy sky, there had just shot up a dazzling green Dark Mark, shimmering in the sky like lingering fireworks.
Cam sat back in her seat, deflated, staring at the house. She only stared that intensely at something when she was deciding: it was a harder version of the same stare she had when trying to choose a robe. Eglantine had also seen her stare like that after Bertie died: Cam had said that she was trying to decide whether or not it was worth it to keep living.
"You're not thinking of going in, are you?" Eglantine said, swallowing hard. Her mouth was suddenly dry. She turned down The Who; the song was fading out. "We should get the Aurors."
"Why? They usually only put that Mark up when they're leaving, don't they? It's probably pointless to go in." Cam sighed. "And, if it's not, it's like walking to our own deaths. On the other hand, they might still be in there. They might be the same people who killed Bertie."
"They're probably not—"
"But what if they are? That's it." Cam shoved the Alice band back on, getting the hair out of her eyes, and took her wand out. "Let me out of this stupid thing. I'm going in."
"Oh, no you aren't. Not alone."
"Why not? I'm capable."
"So was Bertie, you idiot. He was more capable than the both of us put together, and they still killed him. You don't know how many people are in there – it could be three, or thirty! Don't walk into a fight with blinders on."
Cam frowned. "I don't care what you say, I'm going in. Come with me or not, your choice."
After a brief fight with the lock, Cam got out of the car. In the stark glow from the headlights, Eglantine could see her sister's blue jeans and peasant top disappearing behind the hedgerow. She sighed. What could she do, other than act as Cam's human shield? She couldn't do magic out of school; she'd get expelled. Although, if she were in a situation where she had to use magic, she'd probably wind up dead anyway.
Shaking her head—this was most certainly not the movies, or even a disco—Eglantine got out of the car herself and jogged after Cam.
The massive bulk of Crevan's manor was imposing and silent; all the windows save one, the library, were dark. Even the kitchens in the basement were dim, lit only by candles: the elves would still be cleaning the day's mess, but Crevan had become so stingy he hated for them to use his oil lamps for such a chore. The sisters crouched behind the boxwoods that encircled the lawn near the door and debated which entrance to use: there was the front entry, that led into Crevan's beloved foyer; the east entry, which was located beneath a portico and led into, by way of a smaller foyer, the ballroom; and the west entry, which led (via yet another small foyer) to the morning room, parlor, and library. Cam voted for the west entry, which was the most direct route; Eglantine voted for the east, so they could potentially creep up on whatever Death Eaters might be in there from an angle from which they wouldn't be expecting attack.
"What about aunt Alya? D'you think she's still in there?" whispered Cam. "Or do you think she's dead, too?"
"I think she's in on it. I'd be shocked if she didn't sell out her own husband. You can't honestly think that uncle Crevan wasn't one, with all those shady mates of his. And that this isn't because he's outworn his usefulness."
"Well, what about us? If that's the case, we're probably only safe because of him. If he is…you know…he's probably told them to leave us alone, and if they've turned on him, what reason do they have not to just blast us all to bits?"
Eglantine snorted. "He wouldn't have protected us. Are you kidding? Think about it – if he had, Bertie would still be alive. It's just that we've not done anything interesting, and they've probably forgotten we even exist. But if we start barging in there too loudly, they're bound to off us without even a thought. We shouldn't be in front of the house right now, we should be creeping in somewhere they wouldn't expect us."
"Why are you so convinced that our uncle was a Death Eater? Honestly, Tina, your imagination sometimes."
Cam made a stubborn face that Eglantine knew signified the end of all rational conversation. For such a prissy, Alice-band wearing, fun-killer, Cam was tougher than either of Eglantine's brothers had been. Also, Eglantine thought, far more stupid.
"We'll take the east entry, like you wanted. Let's go," said Cam.
They moved slowly across the lawn, trying to stay behind bushes and plants. As they approached the entrance, Eglantine said that it was almost certain they'd have gone by now, but Cam still insisted that they go in and assess the situation. Cam opened the door, and they crept silently inside.
It was pitch dark, except for the faint moonlight from outside, and the green glow from the slowly-dissipating Mark above the west wing. Eglantine and Cam walked upright through the ballroom, keeping to the perimeters of the room, and then through the completely darkened corridor that connected the ballroom to the foyer, and which opened onto several useless chambers that were relics of the home's aristocratic past. Before entering the foyer, which would be brighter than the west wing because of the room's glass dome, Cam performed a Shadow Charm on herself and Eglantine, so they could walk through the foyer undetected.
They heard voices, swelling in volume: one was their aunt Alya's; the other was one that sounded vaguely familiar, but not familiar enough to name. Cam and Eglantine stayed in the hall, pressing their ears up against the doors.
"I demand to know why the Dark Lord wanted my husband dead, Mulciber! Stop lying!"
"I don't know, Alya. I didn't hear of any plan to kill Crevan. I don't think he did it."
They heard a crash—Alya had thrown something at Mulciber. "Of course he did it, you imbecile! Why else would the Mark be here? One of you—one of us—killed him. I demand to know who and why!"
"For Merlin's sake, Alya, it's not as if you loved him," said another voice.
"That's Dolohov," Cam muttered to Eglantine. "I remember him better than you, from uncle's parties. He's one of the ones who killed Bertie."
"You remember Dolohov. And yet you still insist Crevan wasn't a Death Eater." Eglantine sighed.
Alya, out in the foyer, let out a loud sob. "So what?" she moaned. "He was useful to me; he was still useful to me—and what's more, to him. This is wrong, this is all wrong—"
There was a loud pop: someone had Apparated in.
"You—you horrid—why did you kill him, Tom, why? It didn't need to be done! The curse was working as it should've; he would've kept giving you information just as you wanted."
"I didn't," hissed a cold, high voice. "And don't accuse me of lying, Alya; you know I didn't do it."
Eglantine elbowed Cam sharp in the ribs, but neither of them dared to even whisper to each other: it was him. They were in the same building as Voldemort.
"What do you mean, 'I know'? You should know more than anybody that there is no such thing as knowing. If you didn't kill him, if you didn't order it done, why the Mark?"
"Somebody wished to mislead you. That is all."
"Nobody can conjure the Mark except us – it has to be one of us."
"I shall deal with the individual who has done this," said Voldemort. "They have acted without my orders and have associated me with the act. There are many people whose deaths I shall cause, but Crevan Bertrand's was not one I intended. He was still useful to me. However, now that you have lost, as it were, your right hand…I'm not so sure the same holds true for you."
"I—what? I—Tom, I still have children, they could—you know, for years—and I helped you with what you said was your most important—"
"Stop groveling, Alya. It doesn't become you. And, incidentally, don't ever presume to question me again. If I had taken your husband's life, it would have been the correct decision. Dolohov, please teach Mrs. Bertrand the consequences of her arrogance; then join me."
"Of course, my Lord," said Dolohov. Eglantine and Cam could hear a swishing sound, and the departure of Voldemort and Mulciber; then, they heard Dolohov bellow, Crucio! And they heard Alya screaming.
Without discussion, Eglantine and Cam went back the way they came, and—still silent—returned to the car. They sat in there, doors closed, windows fogging with their breath.
"Shit," said Eglantine.
"I suppose I just didn't want to admit it to myself," said Cam. "I just—I mean, he's our uncle. You don't want to think you're related to someone like that. Hell, you don't want to think the cousin you work with is related to that."
"How? It was sort of obvious. I mean, it's not really something you bring up casually round the dinner table, but it's not as if he kept the most lawful company—Dolohov, Mulciber's dad, that creepy Greyback bloke that came to the Christmas party that year—probably Evan Rosier's dad, he's kind of a toad."
"You know," Cam said, biting her lip, "I'd wondered about that myself. It isn't as if I was ignorant to the possibility. But then I thought, they're all supposed to be anonymous, aren't they? And there was no way anyone ever could've stayed anonymous if Crevan and Alya were involved. Crevan made a toast once that he had been friends with all of them—the old ones, I mean, like Nott and Thuban Avery and Dolohov—since Hogwarts, and that they talked all the time—they must at least know if each other were…you know. "
"True." Eglantine turned the car on. Now the Beatles were playing. But I don't care too much for money; money can't buy me love. She loved this song: she'd danced to it with her aunt Linda, her brother Carlisle's wife, in their kitchen in Chicago; she had made Molly Weasley go with her to a Beatles concert once, and Molly had fainted during this song when she had supposedly touched Paul; it was the first song she played when she had finally succeeded in getting her record player to work. It was strange, hearing this song that was tied to so much happiness, and beginning to feel as if happiness couldn't even be real. As if nothing could be real.
She had never really likeduncle Crevan. He'd been blustery and empty-headed, weak and distant and judgmental. Several times, when Eglantine had misbehaved at a Christmas party or some other get-together, she'd heard Crevan giving her father a lecture about how Eglantine was arrogant because she was so much younger than the rest, and how her "inappropriate" interest in Muggles had to be put to bed. Crevan was the only uncle she had, and Alya the only aunt, and they were both utterly tiresome. And as bothersome as they were, as overbearing, as snobbish, as disapproving, Eglantine had always wanted to hope that her judgments about them had been wrong. She had been waiting to find the soft core that must be somewhere inside Alya; had been waiting for Crevan to come round, to approve of somebody, anybody. She'd wanted to find some shred of evidence that would prove to her for once and all that they were decidedly not Death Eaters or even bigots—that their acquaintance with a load of Lord Voldemort's toadies was just a sorry, stupid coincidence.
Tonight, though, she'd learned that her assumptions had been right; and there are some things a person doesn't wish to be right about, no matter how fervently they may argue their point, even with themselves. Her uncle's guilt was confirmed at the same time as his death. If the investigation proved thorough enough, the name she shared with him would be as tarnished as those of Nott and Dolohov. People might come after her or Cam or even Carlisle the way people came after Bertie, and she knew that none of them were as strategic as Bertie had been. They couldn't think ahead; they didn't share his force.
Cam didn't seem to be upset in the same way. She was talking now, talking about how they should tip somebody off about Alya. She was debating herself earnestly: she wanted to be right.
"Fuck it," she said, cutting Cam off. "Fuck everybody. Everyone but you and me and Carlisle and mum and dad. Everybody can see me in hell."
As the Aurors arrived at Crevan Bertrand's mansion to inspect the room in which he had been murdered, Eglantine and Camilla sped off to town, dodging cars, and—without noticing her sister leave—Eglantine danced all night, leaving with the numbers of seven men, all older, all differently rebellious-looking, all equally sleazy. Thanks to the fake ID she'd crafted last semester at school and the size of her chest underneath her purple tube top, they'd all thought she was eighteen, and had bought her drinks. The songs had all blended together under the lights to create a world in which there were no Death Eaters, no Bertrands, no Aurors, and all Eglantine had to worry about was not getting truly drunk and not tripping over someone's platform heels and ending up splayed across the floor. Nothing from the outside was real here.
When she left, she caught the Knight Bus, and there, in the stuffy, dusty-smelling interior of the bus, as it banged and rushed across England, she remembered. There she sat, once again silent, wondering who would be next.