Year of Our Lord
Chapter One
January
MISTRESS LAVENDER MACMILLAN:
23/1/2003
My darlings,
It is always strange to recall my old life, the way things used to be. I almost never think about the past anymore, but every now and again, something happens that puts my life into perspective. Just when I think we've finally settled down, finally become comfortable with the way things are, I catch myself saying or doing something I never thought I would say or do. Then, it's like waking up from a dream. I feel I have to pinch my arm to remind myself that this is truly my life now.
This morning, Witch Bulstrode and I were in Diagon Alley, shopping for some more rat spleen, when we ran into Wizard Finnigan. It had been a few weeks since I'd last seen him, so we said our hellos and spent a moment catching up. I asked him how his masters were doing, and he said they were quite well. He was at the shop to pick up some potions ingredients for Master Longbottom, in fact. Wizard Finnigan was wearing the biggest smile I had seen on anyone since the Battle. I asked him what made him so happy, and he told me he was finally to be married. He had been working hard for the past several years to earn a wife, made his request the month before, and the Dark Lord had granted his wish. I congratulated him and asked who she was, and when they were to be wed.
"This evening," he said. "They've given me Witch Patil." He must have read the question on my face, because before I could ask, he clarified that it was Parvati, not Padma, whom he was to marry. (Like you, Parvati and Padma are twins.) The moment the name fell from his lips I felt like I was spiraling out of a hazy dream.
What was happening? What was this life? I was talking to my old school friend as though he was a just friendly shop boy. I was accompanied by an old bully, a bully who now worked for me, and I'd just found out my best friend was being given away into marriage as though she was a work bonus. Seamus. Millicent Bulstrode. Parvati, my best mate. All on the social ladder one rung beneath me – half-bloods. Not even given the respect of their first names, not by us purebloods anyway. I hardly heard as Seamus expressed his relief at being given a wife he knew so well, hardly registered the laughable validity of his concern.
Then Seamus said, "Well, I'd best be getting back, Mistress Macmillan," and that was that. With his words, I was dubbed Mistress Macmillan again; pureblood wife to a pureblood wizard, mother of two beautiful pureblood children, happily maintaining our station in a pureblood society that treats our friends as inferiors and servants.
Children, you know your father and I love each other very much, but this wasn't always the case. We came to love each other over many years. It was hard work. At first, I was resentful of the way we had been thrown together. It may seem the norm to you that people don't choose their own spouses, but that didn't used to be the way things were done. My parents chose each other, just as your father's parents chose each other. Ernie and I did not get to choose. We were chosen for each other by the Dark Lord – a fact which we both detested. We had hardly known each other at school; to be told that we were now to be married, to have children together, to propagate a pureblood wizarding society, seemed absurd. One random, uncalculated point of the Dark Lord's finger sealed my fate forever.
Over time, we came to find solace in each other's presence. Wizard Finnigan was right; being assigned a spouse that you knew was a comfort. We had been in different houses at Hogwarts – back when there were houses – but we were from the same year, so we'd had classes together often. Ernie had always struck me as pompous and a bit ridiculous, but I soon learned he was fiercely intelligent and exceedingly kind. We bonded over our acceptance of our new life, over our shared desire to keep our heads down and make the best of things. He has been my closest ally, dearest friend, and kindest companion over the last five years. I know you two are young now, but someday, I hope you are given partners whose ambitions will so equally align with your own.
I will write another letter next month to add to your memory box for your seventeenth birthdays. I must report that this month, you both showed magical abilities for the first time. Your father and I wept with the most profound relief. Sierra, you Accio'd Samuel's toy pony, and Samuel, you levitated the pony over your sister's head and conked her with it. Not the nicest use of magic I've ever seen, I'll admit, but it was magic all the same. This means in two years, you'll be off to Hogwarts. I can't believe in two years, you'll be seven years old and already leaving home. When your father and I were young, magical children didn't go to Hogwarts until they were eleven or twelve. Can you imagine?
Goodnight for now, my loves.
Your loving mother
FILTH:
January 13, 2003
Today, I discovered why Percy refuses to make attempts at procreation with his wife.
When the Master and Mistress asked me to take his place as the biological father of the Mistress's children, I was at first shocked. After all, law dictates that pureblood couples should produce pureblood children unless special dispensation has been afforded for infertile cases. I assumed, in their asking, that Percy was one such case.
My shock arose less from this supposition than from surprise that they would risk being found to have a less-than-pure child. After all, half-blood donors are the lawful solution to this problem. As a Mudblood – we are no longer allowed to be called Muggleborn – I was stripped of my name (Justin), and the Death Eaters gave me a new name (Filth.) They decreed that I would be branded and sterilized. The branding, they did themselves. The sterilization, they left to my new Master. Of course Master Weasley, or Percy as I shall hereafter call him, is a kind and fair man. He never followed through with this order. I didn't think there was a particular reason for this negligence beyond his generosity.
So when Percy and Luna asked me to father their children, I wondered that they didn't just ask for a half-blood to be assigned to help. It was the safer option; if anyone were to find out, not only would their child or children be killed for dirtying the bloodline, the Weasley's would likely be punished severely for disobeying the law. I would certainly be put down. Percy assured me this was unlikely to happen; as a Mudblood, no one would assume me capable of fathering children anymore. Out of gratitude for the kindness they've always shown me, I agreed to their request. It was . . . an awkward affair, but the first time took, and nine months later Evander was born. Two years later, Venetia. I have never seen these children as my own; they have been, and always will be, the son and daughter of Percy, bearing the Weasley name and the protection thereof. The same is true of the third, due in three and a half months.
Today, Luna let it slip that whether Percy was infertile was, in fact, unknown. They had never tried; they had never slept together. I confess, I was not as shocked as she perhaps expected. I had long since formed a suspicion about Percy that this revelation seemed to confirm. Rather than shock, I instead felt annoyance. After all, it hadn't stopped me from doing my duty and creating heirs for him, but I suppose that is the way of the world now. Mudbloods must make the sacrifices their Masters cannot, or will not, make.
Luna has always been understanding, of course, and never attempted to make our . . . relations . . . out to be anything but a biological act.
I struggle with whether I should tell Percy that I, too, share his inclinations, but I don't want to get his hopes up.
MASTER RONALD WEASLEY:
Memory deposit. January. 2003.
The day after the Battle. I'm walking through a massive set of elaborately carved wooden doors. The carvings are of peacocks, I think, or maybe some kind of turkey. I'm not sure. It doesn't matter. Lavender is crying silently beside me. All of us have our hands tied behind our backs. They're making us carry our wands in our mouths – it keeps us all from talking to one another and we can't reach them with our hands tied. There are about a dozen of us.
I'm trying not to think of Harry, but I can't get the image of his limp body spilling from Hagrid's arms out of my head. Voldemort cut off Harry's head right in front of us, to show us just how dead he was. How badly we had lost.
We're walking into a huge, bright room with white molding and mint green walls. It's paper, not paint; I can tell by the pattern. There is a fire going in a huge fireplace on the far wall. Its mantel must be at my shoulder height, so it's tall. The floors are wood, but they've been painted white, and there's a thick rug that covers most of the room. A crowd stands against each wall, all of them either jeering or glaring menacingly at us. I can't see their faces in focus; I just feel their contempt, hear it in their hisses and growls, like a pack of hyenas dying to tear us apart.
As the last of our group gather up, the doors close with a final bang. There is no escaping. Whatever happens in this room, it can't be undone. We can't go back.
Voldemort gets up to speak, and everyone stops talking. Not us, of course. All of us have been silent since yesterday. We couldn't talk, even if we didn't have our wands between our teeth. "The brave, fierce warriors of Hogwarts," he says with a sneer. Bravery sounds ridiculous now. Silly. "What are we to do with you?" The room erupts into suggestions: kill us, torture us, make us pay. Voldemort holds up a white, bony hand and everyone shuts up again.
"So much pure blood stands before me, so much potential." He pauses. "This is the dawn of a new Wizarding society, a better one than has ever yet existed. One that recognizes the talent, strength, and dignity that resides in the pure, untainted blood of our oldest families. What shall I do with you, those of you who defied me, but yet possess pure blood?" The crowd offers their opinions, and Voldemort holds up a silencing hand again. "Never fear – those of you with pure blood . . . are free to go." The crowd breaks into hushed, frantic whispers and we look at each other, bewildered. This must be a trick. Voldemort smiles, if it can be called that, and says, "With stipulations, of course. You will be marked, lest you or anyone else forget how you defied your Lord. You will be given a pureblood spouse and be required to produce pureblood children, as a token of your cooperation. But, I am remiss. Before we discuss this further, we must remove those that are not needed."
My heart begins to pound in my chest; immediately, instinctively, my eyes latch onto Hermione. She stares wildly at the man coming toward her, grabbing her shoulders, dragging her out of the room. They take Justin, Dean, and Dennis Creevey. The muggleborns. Those that are not needed.
I want to fight, to go after her, but my feet are rooted to the spot. As soon as the doors close and the hall swallows them, Voldemort continues. "There. Much better. The very air seems cleaner, does it not? As I was saying. You will be branded, given spouses, and required to further the purity of our race with pureblood children. You will be monitored to ensure you are following our new rules. Beyond these small parameters, you're all free to do as you like. See, purity of blood has its advantages. For the half-bloods among you, your lot is not quite as . . . easy as the others', I'm afraid, but don't worry. You will find new jobs await you in our society. You will not want for food or shelter; you will be taken care of. When the time comes, and you've proven your worth, you may request to be given spouses. Though, of course, you will not be permitted to produce any children – we wouldn't want to take any steps backward, would we?"
The room is spinning as he speaks. My hands are clammy, my face sweating as though we were still standing beneath the burning ruins of the Great Hall.
"Now, spouses. Well, before we get to that, I must ask the half-bloods to leave us – this part is not intended for you." Greedy, claw-like hands grab Seamus, Hannah, Susan. One by one, our group continues to grow smaller. "First, I would like to reward one amongst us, a young Death Eater who proved his loyalty and dedication to me by ridding us of our most difficult enemy. Draco Malfoy, who killed Albus Dumbledore in my name, will be allowed to choose his own wife."
Draco steps through the crowd; the assembled Death Eaters clap and cheer. The sound all starts to drown together, the clapping and screaming and praises. He says . . . something, and Pansy Parkinson moves to his side. They disappear into the crowd.
Voldemort starts speaking again. He is calling names. I don't hear him, not really, until he calls Ginny's name. Then, "to Blaise Zabini." I want to vomit, but my wand is still between my teeth. It's hard to breathe. George, also, to a Slytherin – Astoria Greengrass. I stop listening, I can't listen to this, this can't be happening.
"Ronald Weasley – " Suddenly, for a bewildering second, I think I'm about to step up to the Sorting Hat, get placed in Gryffindor, all of this a terrible, anxious dream. "You are to marry Hestia Carrow." Another Slytherin, I know that, but I can't place her. Then it comes to me: a twin, short, pretty, nasty, friend of Pansy. I don't remember the rest.
