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I actually, really, truly, seriously believe that it is possible to die of boredom
I imagine it to be a spectacularly uneventful sort of death. No bang, no dramatic fireworks. Just a quiet slipping-away with nary a fizz to mark the end of my inauspicious life.
My boy, Draco, likes to romanticize what it might be like to go out in battle, wand drawn, spells blazing, eyes staring unflinchingly at certain death. I don't recall being that naive when I was his age. Idealistic? Maybe. But never naïve. Draco is old enough now and yet I have not the heart to paint a more realistic picture of what it's like to live this life for as long as I have.
The day began quite innocuously, which in hindsight ought to have been warning enough. Fate has had it in for me from the moment I picked up a wand. Waking up to good news and good weather always puts me in a slightly anxious state. Narcissa never understood my brooding suspicion of sunny days.
I was at my rundown villa in Sardinia, sitting down to a breakfast cooked by my new housekeeper, an attractive, plump, young woman with café latte skin and no discernible gag reflex (always an added bonus in my line of work).
The familiar raven arrived and my appetite promptly fled. It had been six weeks since I last saw Voldemort's messenger bird and I was hoping for an even longer reprieve. I unfurled and read the message as my impressively fat omelette sat untouched on my plate.
A Revel? Surely he must be joking? There hasn't been a Dark Revel in over twenty years. But then Voldemort never jokes. He's tried on a few occasions but we never feel it's safe enough to be genuinely amused.
But back to my impending demise from boredom. I am sitting here, in this, the World's Most Uncomfortable Chair, ankles crossed under this gothic monstrosity of a table. Voldemort, or Death Breath, as my son once called him after a particularly unforgettable close encounter, is doing his best impersonation of a music conductor at the head of our table. We are his macabre orchestra, playing a frenzied tune of terror, obedience and compliant nodding.
It helps that I am about a minute away from being well and truly sotted. This is despite the fact that the beer we're being served tastes like horse piss.
They don't hold Dark Revels like they used to. The grog was much better in my youth. So were the venues. Malfoy Manor, may it rest, hosted several Revels. A few were held at the Goyle mansion (which, like my former home, is now doing its best impression of kindling). Several more were held at lavish Death Eater hideouts where guests sometimes indulged in an entire week of depravity.
That was when Death Eating was glamorous.
These days, not so much.
We are old, tired and most tragically of all, we are apathetic. Apathy is like a cancer. All it takes is one iota of doubt. One small spot of questioning spreads like wildfire in the right conditions. And conditions have been dire indeed. Less than half of us gathered here this evening remain lawful citizens of Wizarding Britain. Only three of us still retain our ancestral homes and property. Apathy corrupts, lays waste to what was once a healthy, red-blooded, youthful zeal. Oh, there are still some of us who recite the words with genuine ardour.
And by some of us, I mean Bellatrix.
Maybe it does require a certain level of madness to keep the faith. Personally, I value my sanity above my ability to please Voldemort. Madness is bad business sense, after all.
I am forty-three years old and I have been serving the Dark Lord for nearly three decades. There is no retirement from being a Death Eater, not even when said Dark Lord vanishes for eleven years without a trace after being felled by a mere infant. Yes, they do tell you about the 'forever' clause when you first join, but show me a seventeen year old that reads the fine print. My service will be complete when I am dead. I aim to live. How ironic that my main goal in life is to do the one thing that continually endangers that very life.
Currently, we are sitting rather apprehensively under half a roof. The apprehension concerns the fact that the other half of the roof looks liable to bury us at the first strong breeze. This ramshackle castle resembles the state of Death Eating today.
I can see stars from where I'm sitting…
I observe old Avery sneak a swig from his personal hip flask. Now that's forward planning, bringing your own drink. He catches my eye, gives me a sheepish look as he grudgingly offers up the flask to me.
I shake my head, preferring to save the fancy stuff for when I'm actually trying to enjoy getting drunk. This weak, lukewarm beer serves its purpose. It warms my extremities and dulls the tartness in my voice when I am inevitably called on to reply to whatever inane comment is thrown my way by my Master.
"Yes, my Lord. Capital idea, my Lord."
His skinny, opaque, clammy-skinned arms gesticulate wildly. Gleaming eyes narrow into slits of concentration. Occasionally, spittle escapes his mouth when he's particularly incensed about something. Voldemort exudes a faint, formaldehyde smell. I sometimes think of him as an energetic zombie, and with roughly the same amount of imagination.
To say I am physically repulsed by Voldemort is putting it mildly.
He's garbling something about Potter now. Oh mercy. This could go on…
No one among Voldemort's ranks attends meetings by choice. We are made to go or face the wrath of a sullen Dark Lord. Now, I don't know about other Dark Lords, but ours gets quite jabby with his wand when he's put out. It's all about tradition, you see. He Summons, we drop whatever evil-doing we're in the middle off and Apparate post-haste.
So here we are. More members are arriving, taking their place along the table. The Muggle serving girls bustling around us are a familiar feature at Revels. Professional whores, all of them. One or two are very young. Too young in the trade to grasp fully that this is so much more than an eccentric gentleman's club where the participants play Occult 'dress up'. They are not here to pour our drinks and flatter our manly sensibilities, no matter that this is what they think they are being paid to do.
It really has been a long time. This is a Revel, I have to remind myself. And I am a Death Eater. A certain amount of debauchery comes with the territory.
I have witnessed some unseemly things over the years; purposeless acts committed in the name of depravity and opportunity. Some of us utilize Pensieves to expunge potentially destructive memories, but this method has never worked for me.
One cannot (usually) change the past. So I learn from my mistakes, but in most cases, the mistakes of others. Morality has nothing to do with my particular stance towards Revels. Rather, I don't see any value in being needlessly cruel. Sadism erodes the mind's natural rigour. The perpetrator, no matter how thoroughly he washes his hands, never escapes mentally clean. It hardly makes fiscal sense, if you think about it. Oh yes, I am a card carrying, self-serving son of a bitch. I have no illusions about what I am capable of, but killing for killing's sake does nothing for me except create a sticky mess that often requires a soapy sponge, a few memory erasing charms and quite possibly bribes, to fix.
Real enjoyment is not on the cards tonight, in any case. None of us can ignore the enormous risk we are taking in simple being here together. It is exceedingly dangerous, given the current climate. There are bounties on our heads, a king's ransom over my own, in fact. Draco takes great delight in telling me. There are one or two exceptions, of course-our moles-well-placed within the Ministry and handsomely rewarded for it.
I should know, I'm the one that accounts for each galleon we send them.
Thus far, there are sixteen of us here tonight, five more to arrive, because Voldemort likes odd numbers.
Young Goyle is on my left. Crabbe's boy should be seated across from me, but alas, he is currently residing outside, under the Dark Lord's rose bushes due to a mishap none of us like to mention. Stupid boy wasn't worth the time it took his dullard mother to spit him out. I did tell them when they invited him to take the Mark, but did anyone listen? No.
It didn't surprise any of us to discover that Voldemort tends roses. It's more about what's buried under them. Those woody, prickly bushes yield fat, red, blooms the size of your head. You can smell the perfume a long distance off. Finest roses in all of England, I'm sure.
If only every rose enthusiast had a dozen or so failed Death Eaters for fertilizer.
So Crabbe's replacement sits in his place. A Big Girl's Blouse with the unfortunate name of Dieter Roggering. I wish I was joking, but I'm not. Dangerous surname to have in a business like ours.
I've been sitting here for two hours. Any more of this and the next time anyone cares to look in my direction, all they'll see is a dried out husk of a man dressed in a lot of black leather. Thus far, Death Breath hasn't given us an indication as to why he called this particular Revel.
One does not just throw a Revel willy-nilly. We do so after a momentous occasion.
Like when Draco and his team attacked Potter's engagement party. Now that was a rousing success, even if those boys did nothing more than scare several elderly guests into incontinence. Or when they blew up half of that dirt mound the Weasley family calls home.
Good efforts, those.
It's all well and good to be stupid and daring while Potter's still riding his proverbial training broom. But from our sources in the Ministry, it would seem that Harry Potter is growing up, and it is only a matter of time before he steps around from behind Dumbledore's skirts and hunts us down.
When that day arrives, I shall have a good, long chat with my son about re-thinking our allegiances. Loyalty to Voldemort only works so long as there is some benefit to be gained from it.
As Voldemort's Head of Profitable Arrangements, my job is to keep the Dark Lord's bank accounts full. Trying to take over Wizarding Britain can be an expensive endeavour and so it falls to me to ensure that there are always enough funds without having to kidnap rich wizards and shake them upside down to see what falls out of their deep pockets.
This is what I do. It's what I've always been good at. I'm usually called upon to look over some upstart's suggestion to make us more money. And let me tell you, there've been some monumentally daft ideas over the years.
You're probably wondering what's in it for me.
For all that the Dark Lord can still have me erased in a second, he realises that I do not make money for free. I earn a tidy profit from the money I make him. The downside is that I have to live a fugitive's life, away from my son. Being who he is, Draco is under constant Ministry surveillance and it takes a great deal of cunning for me to be able to communicate with him safely. My ex-wife, Narcissa, has got the better end of the deal that was our marriage. With the demise of Malfoy Manor (I swear that woman only married me for that house), she has claimed a more modest property as her dower estate. Draco spends roughly half the year with her. He took the Mark after his seventeenth birthday and to this day I am still unable to repress the memory of his mother's histrionics at that particular decision.
Contrary to popular belief, I did not force the boy. Voldemort wanted him and to deny that was to sign Draco's death warrant. There would have been ways for me to hide him. But unlike myself, my son does not wish to lead a fugitive's life. Not yet, at any rate.
It's not all doom and gloom, though. This state of affairs sounds more depressing than it actually is. I am as extremely wealthy and there are still many places in Wizarding Europe where I can live like an anonymous king. Take Sardinia for instance. The mountains I call home have shielded me well.
So long as the Light stays in its airy, sunny patch of Wizarding Britain, and we stay in the shadows, of course.
The status quo has made me a wealthy man. Our existence keeps Potter pleasantly on edge, as he tends to his vapid flock of sheep. We, meanwhile, operate in the dark corners and alleyways of our world, corrupting where we find the corruptible. Yes, we're getting complacent, but money and creature comforts tend to do that to a person. Wizards are no exception.
I am in constant dread of the day the Dark Lord finally decides to raise the ante and decides to bring the fight to Potter's doorstep. If he can only keep his fanatical agenda on the back burner for a little while longer...
Yes, that would be very nice.
"I have a very special surprise," Voldemort suddenly announces.
The unusually playful tone he is using has a whiplash effect on all assembled. My pall of boredom lifts like mist faced with a brittle, dry wind. At some unseen command, Dieter Roggering lumbers from the hall. After a moment, he returns from the direction of Voldemort's personal chambers, carrying a small, sack-cloth covered burden over his shoulder.
He looks immensely pleased with his task. The reason for this is soon apparent.
He is carrying an unconscious girl. I can see her dirty, bare feet and a great quantity of dark hair, swaying slightly with each step Roggering takes. I feel myself frowning and immediately cease.
Ah. So the Revel is well and truly underway.
One of the Muggle whores manages to put two and two together, her original unease at her situation probably condenses into stark realization that all is not right this evening. And more still is yet to go wrong. She shrieks and drops her pitcher of weak, flat beer. It runs down along the uneven floor. Another girl saves her screams and races for the exit, but young Goyle moves from his chair and catches her. He looks markedly more pleased with the situation than I.
Meanwhile, our 'surprise' for the evening has been unceremoniously deposited onto the table, like a prize stag from a successful hunt. She lands on her side violently enough to make me wince. The sackcloth is whipped from her, revealing a pale, slack, nude body. Her arm is flung out, palm unfurled on the tabletop before me. Her nails are short and bitten down. Purple bruises encircle her wrist.
I find that I am presented with her profile and in that moment, her identity is without question.
Hermione Granger's long curly hair obscures some of her face, but I see her.
Oh yes, I see you.
It would seem that my relatively peaceful, idyllic existence as a pampered fugitive has come to an abrupt end.
Fuck, as Draco is fond of saying. We're going to go to war over this.
The other men are no less concerned, although I can sense a growing excitement seep into the air as well. There are audible gasps.
"This is the end of us all," someone whispers. It is Antonin Dolohov's nephew, Eugene, easily the yellowest belly in the room.
Luckily for young Eugene, Voldemort does not hear him. Our Dark Lord is practically rubbing his hands together will anticipation. He's like some demented house cat eager to please his hosts with the offering he's dragged back into the house.
"For you," he tells us, his face suffused with nightmarish glee. His stare is scorching. "Who among you considers yourself worthy enough to take her first?"
A plan has already hatched itself in my brain. There is going to be only one way out of this predicament, and I mean to escape with my galleon-filled coffers intact. There is also the small matter of my son being out in the open still, a target for revenge should Potter ever seek to take that well-trodden path.
I'm going to have to rescue Hermione Granger.
I am on my feet. "I'll have her," I announce to all and sundry.
The silence is suddenly deafening.
"If you think I am worthy of such a prize, my Lord," I add, more quietly. There is a fine line between strategic humility and obvious arse-kissing. I have been walking this line for long time.
Voldemort's smile is answer enough.