Chapter 3; Cain and Abel
I stared at the Portkey Bellatrix had given me for a good fifteen minutes before I finally mustered the courage to place my hand on it. When I did, the world twisted and vanished. For a moment, I could only hear my own heartbeat, thudding noisily against the roar of the Portkey.
I landed, disconcerted, in a dim and inoffensive room. There was nothing particularly striking about the room, nothing that set it apart from any other room I had ever been in. In short, it could have passed for any pure-blood family's parlor in Britain. As I watched others arrive, I noticed that they'd all used Portkeys as well. Apparently, no one actually knew where the place was. I ventured a wild guess that it was also Unplottable. Evidently, Voldemort liked to have everyone under tight control.
Nevertheless, I breathed a sigh of relief. Normal people in a normal room. No formalities, no chanting, no animal or human sacrifices like I had half expected.
"Hey, Regulus!" Rabastan Lestrange called out jovially. He strode over and slapped my back, throwing an arm around me. "About time you showed up! Don't let these fine people here intimidate you. You may be only sixteen, but I'll bet you can hold your own with anyone here."
I laughed shakily. "Let's hope."
He steered me forcefully over to a group of men and women chatting animatedly around the hearth.
"So, it's true?" a woman asked, directing her gaze toward me. "From what I understand, your brain can run circles around just about everything in this room."
"Er . . ." I flushed, unsure whether or not she was making fun of me.
"This kid is so smart that he took second-year Arithmancy in German just for the hell of it," Rabastan clarified, tightening his grip around my shoulder as I tried to pull away. "He took his O.W.L.S. same year I did and got a perfect score, beat everyone in my class. How old were you back then, Reg? Thirteen?"
"Yeah," I agreed hastily, even though I'd only been twelve.
The young woman looked mildly impressed. "So, you're set to be the youngest Death Eater ever initiated?"
"I . . ." I felt the blood drain from my face. "Er, maybe."
"Elise Locksley," she said smartly, sticking out her hand. "Youngest female Death Eater ever initiated. Looks like I've got some competition."
Her smile was surprisingly genuine. From what I could discern in the dim light, she was a small, compact girl with a pixie-like face and red-orange hair chopped above her shoulder. She brimmed with confidence. I took her hand and shook it firmly, smiling. "How old are you?"
"I was eighteen when I joined up last year," she supplied. "Aside from Bellatrix and Alecto, I'm the only female that's lasted more than six months. Most girls get a little queasy from this sort of thing, know what I mean?"
"Watch out for this one," Rabastan mock-whispered to me. "She looks harmless now, but she can definitely hold her own."
She nodded solemnly, but there was a hint of amusement in her eyes. "He's right – best to steer clear. I've heard you're a boy genius, but your brains won't do a thing for you if you decide to pick a fight with me."
I smirked. "I'll, uh . . . I'll keep that in mind."
She smiled again, eyes glowing in the firelight. "You're too cute," she proclaimed, and ruffled my hair before turning away.
"See?" Rabastan noted, at last releasing me from his stranglehold. "You already got one female admirer, and not a bad one if I do say so myself."
I laughed, and it came with surprising ease. "I've got to go find my cousin – she'll kill me if I don't talk to her before–"
"Too late," he muttered, gaze diverted to the right. I turned to observe men and women gathering slowly around a tall, hooded figure who had appeared without a sound. The noise level dropped off considerably, though he hadn't said a word.
I carefully took a seat next to Bellatrix. She didn't take her eyes off of him, not to greet me or even acknowledge my presence. At this point the room had gone dead silent and incredibly still.
"Humanity is lost."
His voice echoed unnaturally, as if the stones and windows did not seek to absorb the sound, but to amplify it.
"Humanity is lost to ignorance. Humanity is lost to iniquity. Humanity is lost to greed, to oppression, to fear, to complacency. We know this, in some small way," he intoned, and his voice held the audience immobile. "We see it in the vacant glances of passers-by; we hear it in the faintness of our own heartbeats. We feel it sometimes, in those rare moments between sleep and wakefulness – for in those moments, the illusions disappear. Humanity is lost to shame, to sorrow, to weakness, to corruption."
He paused there, and the audience held its breath. His voice was power, poison, clarity.
"Religion is dead," and their hearts beat again. "Admit it. Religion has failed you. For ages, man has sought answers through religion . . . where he could not find them, he invented them. But alas, three thousand years of faith, of devotion, of belief, and the answers elude us still! We are not closer to finding them, but farther than ever."
His voice picked up speed and volume. "Humanity is lost. We are reverent of nothing, respectful of nothing. Humanity is lost to insubordination, to flippancy, to vulgarity. You know this. You are lost – I offer you guidance. You are weak – I offer you power. You hover on the brink of death – I offer you immortality."
And they were moved– to shock and to silent tears. He spoke and they listened. They listened harder and more desperately than they had ever listened in their lives, clung to his voice like a last chance. He spoke next in a whisper, direct and urgent.
"In a world of anarchy, let me be your king. In a world which holds nothing sacred . . . let me be your God."
And they were blinded.
I felt his voice change me, or at least, I felt it try. It struck me as the kind of voice that would alter something small inside of me, seemingly insubstantial to the whole. But it would burrow deeper, unnoticed, and uproot morals like weeds, cast off foundations like cheap overcoats. I wouldn't understand it at first, and by the time I did it would be too late.
He spoke and I listened. We all listened, because anything else was inconceivable.
When he asked to see me privately after the meeting had ended, I nodded mutely, not sure what to say to a man with this capability for manipulation. Because, after the spell of his voice had been broken, I saw it sharply for what it was– manipulation of the most subtle, intimate nature. He was a master at it. So when I faced him, I opted to say nothing at all, for fear that he would find a way to use it against me.
Long shadows obscured the left side of his face. The right side remained revoltingly lucid in the flickering light.
Red eyes, pale skin, slits for nostrils . . . terrifying. Yet I was fascinated from the moment I saw him.
Bellatrix stood beside him, excitement evident in the unnatural brightness of her eyes.
"Regulus Black," Voldemort greeted with a cold upturn of his lips. It emulated a smile, it mocked a smile – it would never pass for one. "I've heard so much about you. At last, I can look upon the face of genius."
Mockery dripped thickly from his voice. I attempted to remain silent and expressionless.
"That is what you believe yourself to be, isn't it?" Voldemort continued, rising in a fluid motion from his seat. "A frustrated, underappreciated genius– no one comprehends the depth of your mind. An immortal among mortals, lonely because of your intellect, suffering from a large inferiority complex, eager to detach yourself from your brother's sullied image, harbouring the tragically delusional belief that you are somehow smart enough or skilled enough to join my ranks."
I raised my eyebrows. He had taken one look at me and summed up my life in a compact, scathing, and entirely accurate sentence. Bellatrix smirked. She knew this would impress rather than deter me.
He clasped his hands together in apparent triumph at my expression. "Yes. I rather thought so."
"I am smart enough to join your ranks," I countered shakily. The pasty skin on his forehead crinkled in surprise.
"You're arrogant as well," he noted. And then, more softly, "Just like your brother."
"No," I corrected quickly, "not like my brother. With all due respect, I'm just stating a fact."
The Dark Lord nodded. "I see. In that case, you wouldn't mind undergoing a little test to prove your abilities? I'm sure it will be more than simple for someone as . . . gifted as you are."
I nodded in assent.
He removed his wand and muttered a brief incantation. A small, perfect cube appeared in his hand. As he lifted it to the light, I saw that each face had many small coloured squares painted upon it. It looked like some sort of three-dimensional puzzle.
A small smile played at his lips. "Have you ever seen one of these?"
I shook my head.
"It's a variation on a mildly amusing Muggle game. There are fifty-four coloured squares on the face of this larger cube. There are six colours, nine squares on each face. You can rotate the squares by moving them manually. I want you to attempt to position all nine red squares on one face, all nine blue squares on another face, and so forth. How old are you? Sixteen? It took me five minutes to solve this when I was your age. Your cousin Bellatrix holds second place: three days! Begin now."
He tossed the cube to me and I caught it. The puzzle seemed simple enough; there were only so many combinations the cube could have. Besides, the centre pieces had to be stationary. I could build the puzzle around that.
I began to move the faces of the cube, and was met with a surprise: the colours of the squares themselves began changing. Not only did I have to solve the cube, I also had to solve it while the colours changed spontaneously. Six colours, nine squares, each one changing once per every two seconds . . . I tried to do the math. The combinations soon exited the linear frame of mathematics and multiplied on themselves exponentially. There were too many to count.
I examined the puzzle carefully as it rested in my hand, and realised there was a pattern to the colour changes; they rotated systematically through the six colours, then began again. It wasn't as hard as I had originally assumed, simply a matter of holding each cube's "true" colour in my mind, and solving for that rotation.
I scrutinized the cube for a good thirty seconds, memorizing each square's colour rotation. Voldemort's expression was smug. He thought I was so confused that I didn't even know where to start.
I began moving pieces, slowly and methodically. I ignored the rotation of colours and held just one colour in my mind for each square. I made a few mistakes, but they were easily corrected. After about a minute, I had all the pieces in place. I waited for the colours to finish their rotations, and then a satisfying 'click' sounded throughout the room. Nine identically coloured squares rested on each face.
"Accio," Voldemort hissed suddenly. He grasped the cube and examined it closely, face impassive. Then he looked up at me, very slowly. "Remarkable."
"I don't understand it myself, my Lord," Bellatrix murmured. "Blacks have always possessed high intelligence, but this is unnatural . . . some strange mutation of the mind . . ."
I realised too late that I had made a mistake. Though his face didn't show it, he had expected me to fail at solving his "amusing" puzzle. Instead I had solved it twice as fast as he ever had. I'd gone from being a possible pawn to something worse: a threat.
"You were close to your brother, were you not?"
Voldemort's question made my head snap up.
"Yes," I admitted. Voldemort was the greatest Legilimens alive. I wasn't stupid enough to think I had the skill to lie to him.
His red eyes narrowed, and I suddenly got the feeling that this, too, had been a test. It conveyed to him that I knew of his ability and wished not to provoke him.
"Did you know I've met him?" Voldemort asked softly, like a cat playing with a trapped mouse. "Your brother, that is. Something in his face . . . it will be interesting to watch him break."
I pushed back the bile rising in my throat, concentrated solely on regulating my expression.
"I am willing to make an exception for you, Regulus Black. You will be the youngest Death Eater ever initiated. Consider it an honour. And yet I ask myself, will you be able to handle all that you see, or are you a coward?"
"I'm not a coward, my Lord," I proclaimed emphatically. I wished so bad that it was true.
"I see great potential in you. But genius is not everything. I am giving you one chance and one chance only; you have not proven your loyalty to me yet. Listen carefully."
He dropped his voice and leaned closer. Crimson eyes seared into mine. "If I see one hint of your brother in you, I will not hesitate to make sure that your fate is the same as his."
"I'm not my brother," I whispered, because I couldn't stand to say it any louder.
He processed this vulnerability impassively, stored it away in his personal arsenal. I'd never met someone more perceptive. He used his intelligence like a scalpel.
"The initiation is in one week," Voldemort declared. "You and two others will take the Mark. I suggest you spend the week preparing for the festivities."
"Festivities?" I asked, too curious to worry about insolence.
He smirked. "Leave me."
This cold dismissal ended our contact, and Bellatrix escorted me from the room.
When we had Apparated safely away, a light came into her eyes like I hadn't seen before. I would be subject to this dark illumination more frequently as the days passed – brilliance verging on madness, admiration on jealousy.
"No one ever talks to him like you did," she observed softly. "No one."
My first encounter with Voldemort left me changed somehow. I became oddly philosophical, and remembered things I thought had faded into the recesses of my memory.
For instance, I kept thinking about a story I read once in the Muggle Bible. God was so angry at man that he flooded the earth for forty days and forty nights to punish him for his sins. Only a few men lived through the storm. When the sun came out again, God realised that he'd made a mistake. Maybe he'd been too hard on his people. Maybe.
So he gave them a rainbow, the first one ever, as a way of saying sorry, and as a promise that he would never do it again.
Colour. What colour was regret? I didn't know. God wasn't sure either, so he created a little bit of each, red and yellow and even a little bit of violet.
I wasn't making a lot of sense, even to myself. I must have taken a wrong turn, or perhaps dozed off, somewhere between sunlight and Noah's ark and the colour of rainbows.
The next week passed in an onslaught of colours and sounds. People I didn't know suddenly wanted to treat me to lunch, and congratulations were piled on my shoulders from left and right. Everyone I knew was pleased, if not exuberant, about the impending initiation. One exception was Sirius. The other was Adele.
I don't know how Sirius found out. When he passed me in the halls or saw me outside of school, he threw a consistent, accusatory glare in my direction. He confronted me, as I eventually knew he would, but he spewed some self-righteous, depreciating rubbish, and I barely listened.
Adele was another matter entirely. I decided to break the good news to both her and my parents at the same time, so I invited her to dinner. This wasn't an uncommon occurrence, and my parents thought nothing of it.
Halfway through the main course, I announced that I would be initiated in less than a week.
My mother reacted immediately – I thought she might combust with happiness. I'd never seen her so cheerful in fifteen years.
"I've been waiting so long for this day. Too long," she added, with a meaningful look at the seat Sirius had vacated permanently.
My father was stoic, as usual, but I could tell he approved. "I'm proud of you, son," he announced predictably. "More proud of you than I've ever been."
Adele too chimed in with congratulations, but I'd seen her face freeze when I first made the announcement. She had composed it carefully before responding. Neither of my parents, in their elation, had taken any notice.
The duration of the meal passed in cheerful chatter, mostly on my mother's part. Adele was unusually quiet, until my father asked her a question, voice sharp. She straightened up.
"Sorry, sir?"
"I'd inquired as to how your mother was faring."
She paused for a long while, looking down at the table.
Adele had that unsettling kind of confidence rare even in adults. Most adults, my parents included, shied away from silence, from the pause between sentences, the space between words, the heartbeat between syllables. They would do anything to mask it, to seal the gaping holes it opened up. Inevitably, they patched the quiet up rather than filled it, usually with some sudden, arbitrary explosion of sound or dialogue, punctuated by their own nervous, flighty breathing.
Adele used silence. She faced it down with remarkable calm, and it opened worlds to her. When the pause between their sentences became too long, most people were left flustered, sputtering, and wholly unable to continue. Adele, on the other hand, did not associate silence with incompetence, and therefore was really able to think before she spoke. Her speech was delightful, slow, didactic, because you could tell she was making it all up as she went along, utterly unconcerned about the ratio between silence and sound.
"She's doing better, sir. Her episodes are less frequent. The doctors still haven't discovered the cause of the affliction, though."
"Give her my best wishes, then. It's a shame."
"I will, sir."
She said nothing else for the rest of the meal. Finally she rose slowly.
"My parents are expecting me home. Thank you for the meal and invitation."
"Always a pleasure," my mother answered, still cheerful. I stood up.
"I'll escort you to the door," I opined quickly.
"We have servants, you know," my father pointed out wryly. Cecilia, standing in the corner, acknowledged Adele with a nod.
"I insist," I replied, with a tight smile.
"Very well. We'll be in the drawing room."
Adele and I made our way slowly down the hall. She shivered, understandably. She was thin and even in the summertime, heat and sunlight didn't seem to penetrate the walls of the manor. I'd grown tall in the past year, as tall as Sirius, but she hadn't grown at all. She seemed slighter than I remembered, coming only to my chest, almost as slender as her dying mother. Her bright blonde hair flickered in the uneven light; china-blue eyes completed her doll-like appearance.
I took her hand, which was ice cold, and lifted it slowly to examine the bruise on her wrist.
"How'd you get this one?" I asked, trying to suppress a smile.
She rolled her eyes. "Banged it against the doorframe on the way in."
"Mm," I murmured noncommittally. "And this one?" I softly fingered the yellow-purple bruise on her neck.
She smiled, a tiny bit. "If you must know, I collided with the nightstand while getting out of bed yesterday."
The latent smile broke out over my face, and I averted my eyes. "You'd think that someone with your condition would eventually learn to be less klutzy."
"Shut up!" she laughed indignantly. "It's not my fault I bruise at every stupid little thing."
"Sorry about my father. He's kind of insensitive . . . I don't think he gets it. About your mum, I mean."
"It's fine." She smiled. "You're always apologizing for your family. It's cute, but unnecessary."
"Sorry."
"Look, Reg," she rushed on, suddenly nervous, "are you sure about this . . . initiation? You've read the newspapers lately, haven't you?"
"I'm positive," I answered. "I've . . . never wanted anything more than I want this."
She frowned. "Why? I don't understand. Ever since your brother left, you've been . . ."
"Stop it."
She glanced up, surprised and a little hurt. I took a deep breath. "Sorry. Did that sound rude? What I meant was, I'd appreciate it if you didn't bring Sirius into this. He had nothing to do with my decision."
Her lips tightened with latent disbelief. When she spoke again, I could hear the pleading in her voice.
"It's dangerous, Reg. I get the feeling this is more than just some country club for pure-bloods. I mean, I trust you know what you're getting yourself into, but . . . Merlin, I just never thought you'd fit the mould of a servant of You-Know-Who."
We'd reached the doorway. I frowned, looking at my feet. "So you don't think I'm . . . what? Strong enough? Brave enough?"
"No!" She shook her head fervently. "It's not that. Not at all."
"Then what? What is it?"
"You know what? I have to go. I'll talk to you about this later, all right? Congratulations, though . . . if it makes you happy, I really am happy."
She smiled, some sincerity in her eyes, and kissed my cheek quickly. Before she turned around I squeezed her hand.
"I'll be fine. Don't worry about me."
She didn't say anything. I watched her slight figure fade into the distance, until she reached a place where Apparition became possible. I didn't see her vanish, just looked up and realised that she was gone.
"She's not good enough for you, Regulus."
That was the greeting my mother endowed me with when I entered the drawing room a few moments later.
I frowned. "Pardon?"
"Adele, I mean," my mother elaborated.
My father spoke up. "You seem very fond of her."
I shrugged and took a seat in a dark leather armchair. My mother was splayed extravagantly on the couch, drinking hard iced bourbon.
"I am, Father. We've been friends since we were young."
He nodded curtly, but my mother suppressed a grimace and continued, "We're aware of that. But you have other friends . . . I hear you're quite popular with the girls at school."
I flushed. This was just ridiculous. Glancing around hastily, I searched for a reason to leave. Finding none, I settled for an uncomfortable shrug.
"It's her family, Regulus," my mother said finally.
I froze. "I don't understand what you mean. Her family's pure-blood, well-off, and they know the right kind of people . . ."
That was one of the reasons I'd allowed myself to become attached to her. I'd believed that with her spotless image and lineage, my parents would not be able to find a reason to object to our relationship. This couldn't be happening.
"They're hangers-on," my mother cut me off wearily. "Do you really think they meet our standards? They aren't half as well-off as most of the families we know, and their blood is somewhat diluted. Besides, Regulus, her mother is sickly and Adele will probably end up the same way."
"That's not her fault," I protested softly. "It's an isolated case, it doesn't run in the family . . ."
"So they claim," she scoffed, taking a generous sip of her bourbon. "Regulus, you've shaped up to be everything I've wanted in a son, and I know you're fond of the girl, but take into consideration that in a year or two, you will probably be married to someone more suitable."
The words hurt me more than I thought they would. "But Mum, I really think–"
"We're telling you this for your own good," my father chimed in. "Play around with the girl all you want, but keep in mind that she is only a diversion. I suggest you begin to distance yourself from her."
His words lanced through me with astounding impact. Diversion? Play toy? Is that what he thought she was? Adele wasn't just some teenage fling to me, like one of my brother's girls – I'd known her since we were seven. He knew that. My mother knew it too, but she said nothing.
"You've made us proud lately. We know you'll make the right decision."
Anger boiled up in me, anger so strong that I wanted to tell them everything. I opened my mouth to say that she was my friend, my best friend. She was one of the only people who really mattered anymore. I'd set it up so that they wouldn't be able to take her away from me.
I closed my mouth when I realised who I would inevitably sound like. Instead I took a deep breath. "Of course," I answered, pushing the anger back down. Surely they were only trying to protect me. I convinced myself frantically that I understood.
My father rose and squeezed my shoulder. "Very good, son. You're going to have a new set of friends very soon, with your initiation coming on. I'm sure you won't be unhappy."
I nodded.
Distance myself. That shouldn't be hard. I could do it.
At that moment, I convinced myself that I wouldn't care in a few months. I'd make myself not care, just like I'd done with Sirius. My older brother had meant everything to me, more than I had ever meant to him. He had friends that would die for him, girls that would live for him, and I'd merely been his annoying younger brother, prone to following him around and asking too many questions.
Forgetting Sirius had taken a lot. Compared to that, letting go of Adele would be no problem at all.
I had a dream the night before the initiation. I always believed that dreams were re-castings of the past rather than predictions of the future, but this dream was entirely unfamiliar. I knew it wasn't from my past. I could remember clearly as far back as a year old – the doctors at St. Mungo's claimed that my brain had developed at an exponential rate.
In the dream, I sat in the compartment of a train, alone. What I remembered most was the desperation, an incessant gnawing in my stomach, something I had to do that I wasn't doing fast enough, and yet the train tapered along languidly.
I was in Italy. I knew that much. The landscape outside crept by like a green spider, fields and fields of perfect green, while the grey sky desaturated everything else. The train began to speed up at last: crawl, trot, gallop, sprint, mach, until it wasn't a train at all anymore but some sort of inhumanly fast vessel of flight, Apparition but faster, a monochromatic kaleidoscope closing in around me from all sides. Suddenly I knew it was the speed that would kill me eventually, not the desperation. I literally flew across the landscape, faster and faster until nothing at all was clear. I was going so fast that I wasn't sure I was going to make it.
The night of the initiation came suddenly. When I took a Portkey to the requested location, dressed in the robes Bellatrix had given me, I tried to tell myself that I wasn't afraid.
I landed outside, in a clearing so thickly wooded that it might have been the Forbidden Forest. Immediately, signs of human activity became apparent. Numerous campfires burned around the clearing; more people were present than I'd imagined. How many Death Eaters did Lord Voldemort have at his command? Laughter and shouting pervaded the clearing, almost like an outdoor party gone too wild. I approached the nearest campfire tentatively. From afar, I saw silhouettes gathered around a central figure, laughing casually. I surmised that they were playing some sort of game.
On closer inspection I saw that the central figure was female, and she wasn't wearing black robes. She wore Muggle clothing instead.
The group exploded with laughter again. Someone shoved her across the loose circle, and a man not much older than me caught her roughly. "What did you say? Say it again. Say it louder!"
"Please," came her near-inaudible response. She seemed half-conscious, delirious with panic as she swooned in the circle of his arms.
I froze. My legs simply wouldn't move.
He smirked. "You can beg as much as you want, sweetheart, but it just won't change my mind. You're filthy – I couldn't stand touching your bare skin, see?"
Another round of laughter, and she was tossed again like a rag-doll into someone else's arms. This man looked her up and down, leering. "You're right, you're right . . . I wouldn't have to feel guilty about fucking an animal . . . you know, you almost had me convinced for a moment there – but no, I don't think so. You still repulse me."
He tossed her to the ground by her hair. Her yelp of pain drew laughter and hooting from everyone present. His voice was deceptively sympathetic when he spoke next.
"All right, all right. We're done playing with you. It was just a joke, yeah?"
A voice shocked me out of my paralysis. "Kind of turns your stomach, doesn't it?"
Elise appeared at my side, a look of mild distaste on her face as she observed her fellow Death Eaters. She jerked her head. "Let's get out of here – their antics kind of shocked me at first as well."
I turned away without saying a word.
"They're harmless to you and me," she clarified, reading fear on my face like a timetable. When I still didn't say anything, she continued, "It's just Muggle-baiting. They won't kill her, at least not tonight. And in the morning, she won't remember a thing."
Do they heal the bruises too or will she wake up wondering why she hurts so badly? I didn't say it out loud, though. I didn't want to know.
Her head snapped towards me when she realised I still hadn't said anything. "Look, Regulus, not everybody here is like them, all right? It happens during every revolution – people use the cause as an excuse to do vile things. You can't let it get to you. Some of us actually believe what the Dark Lord is trying to preach. I'm not a sadist, like your cousin – I'm here because he is the most brilliant leader I've ever met. I'm here because I believe what he's saying and I believe every word."
She turned her head as a flash of blinding light issued from behind us. Her eyes, illuminated briefly, lit up the space around us. Suddenly she was feverish, unrecognizable.
"Come on! He's here!"
She took off toward the source of light without another word.
The laughter died immediately. Campfires flickered out as people moved relentlessly towards the blue-green orb of light.
As I approached, I saw that a cloaked figure held the orb in both hands. Presently, he released it, and it rose slowly, hovering a few metres above his head. It lit the scene, altar and makeshift pews in their entirety. People had clustered, silently and reverentially, around their blue-green sun. The numbers surprised me. Forty had arrived, at least, and these compromised Voldemort's inner circle, his most trusted. Who were they? I would never know half their faces.
"For those few who do not know, we stand tonight at the burial site of Salazar Slytherin. We are gathered to indoctrinate three new believers into our faith. Let us hope that they are worthy of this honour."
I listened tensely as he called the first name. "Matthew Avery, step forward."
A figure, masked and cloaked, emerged from the crowd. He came to stand directly in front of Lord Voldemort.
"I won't bother you with the obvious requirements," Voldemort drawled as he removed his wand. "An oath to serve me is a permanent, irreversible oath – one that I will hold to your death. You may still decline with no consequence. What is your choice?"
"I accept," Avery said quickly, holding out his arm. Voldemort touched his wand to it, and an inky mark bloomed on his skin.
"Regulus Black," Voldemort called, as Avery backed away. I stepped forward, mind reeling at what I had just seen. I stared him in the face; he looked at me for longer than he'd looked at Avery. Finally, he said, "I make the same offer to you, Regulus. If you wish to decline, do so now."
I did everything in my power to stop my mouth from hanging open. I hadn't expected this at all – this simple, quiet, clear-cut initiation. Where was the Mudblood sacrifice? Why didn't I have to perform some sort of task, something to demonstrate that I was ready? Where was the pressure?
Instead, he left the choice entirely in my hands. He wasn't going to do anything to coerce me unfairly into taking the Mark.
It was so much worse this way.
"I accept," I said at last, vision going strange. For a moment the world broke down into primary colours. Red, yellow, and blue swirled around fantastically, smearing the world beyond recognition.
"Hold out your arm."
My vision returned to normal and sharpened. I watched the tip of his wand touch my skin and waited for the pain to begin. I screwed my eyes shut, unable to stand the suspense.
When I opened them, the Dark Mark was there, etched into my skin permanently. No theatrics. No pain.
Somehow, the lack of pain disconcerted me more than anything else I'd experienced that night. How could something so permanent be so silent and sudden?
I didn't understand it. I hadn't even paid a price. I knew I was being ridiculous, maybe even masochistic, but I couldn't get it out of my head. I should have had to trade something for the Mark. It couldn't be free.
Voldemort smiled at me in the half-light, as if he knew exactly what I was thinking. I suppressed a shudder and turned my face away.
Laughter exploded around me, and I joined in slowly. I sat at a table in The Three Broomsticks with nine or ten other Slytherins. It was the first Saturday night of winter break and the place was packed.
We'd been drinking for about two hours, Butterbeer and Firewhisky and all manner of mixed drinks. For once I'd relaxed and had a few drinks myself.
I threw my arm around a girl, someone pretty, laughing with her at a joke. She leaned her face closer to mine and suddenly she was kissing me and I liked it, the falling sensation, the strength of her arms. What I liked most was that I didn't have to be gentle with her, didn't have to wonder if she would break at any moment.
I hadn't really listened when she had told me her name. At first I'd felt slightly guilty about fooling around with other girls, but I had gotten used to it. Distancing myself from Adele had been easier than I'd thought it would be; all girls were the same in the end, silly and self-absorbed, ridiculously eager to please boys like me who didn't give a damn about them.
"Hey, look, it's your girlfriend."
I glanced over at Elise, who had spoken with a quirked eyebrow. I followed her eyes across the bar. Adele had entered with a few friends, chatting happily and oblivious to my presence.
We had become a bit distant in the past few months, but I'd never had the heart to break it off with her, as my parents constantly saw fit to remind me.
I laughed bitterly. "This should do the trick, Mum," I muttered to myself.
"What was that, sir?" the old bartender asked.
"A Firewhisky," I said more loudly. "Make it a double."
I didn't protest as the girl practically plastered herself to my side, giggly more annoying than anything I could remember. She touched my forehead, my lips, buried her face in my neck, hair almost as soft as I was used to.
Adele looked up then, and at first I thought her eyes would slip right past me for lack of recognition. Then she did a classic double-take, because once wasn't enough. Once didn't convince her. I dropped my gaze before I saw any more, but that proved to be a mistake. It played out in my head more vividly and more slowly than it would have in real time: her face whitening in shock, threatening to shatter, eyes welling, and then quick composure. It only took a few seconds at most, but it stuck in my mind like molasses.
When my drink did come, I dropped it, by accident, before I had even taken a sip. The girl, whoever she was, jumped at the sound of glass shattering, and her shudder reverberated in the hollow of my chest.
"You all right?" she asked, smiling entreatingly.
I felt drunk, really drunk, though I hadn't consumed that much alcohol. I chanced a glance at Adele. She was talking casually with Amycus Carrow, smiling a slight gem of a smile. He laughed and touched her shoulder.
"Regulus?"
I looked away. She could have any guy she wanted, even an idiot like Amycus, if it made her happy. I pushed down the jealousy, pushed it back under the boiling surface of my thoughts. I had absolutely no right to be jealous after how I had treated her.
"Regulus!"
Somebody smacked my shoulder, hard. I turned to find Elise grinning. "I called your name three times, idiot."
"Uh, sorry," I mumbled.
"Just go over there and talk to her, for God's sake," Elise hissed, eyes darting towards Adele. "If you stare any harder you're going to burn a hole in her forehead."
"I'm not . . . I wasn't . . ." I trailed off as Amycus put his hand on the small of her back, drawing her forward. She looked uncomfortable but not unhappy. He leaned down –
I jerked my face away and vaulted out of my seat. Went to the bar, ordered another Firewhisky, actually drank it this time. Someone said something to me and I answered with, "No," because I couldn't think of anything else to say. Things were starting to snap out of control, too many colours and noises to keep track of.
Slowly, I returned to my seat, allowed the parasite to reattach herself, and tried to focus on anyone but Adele. It was so loud that I couldn't hear anything.
Finally, I couldn't bear it anymore. I looked up, looked over at them, and felt my gasp before I heard it. Amycus was kissing Adele, hard, hands pressed up against the table behind her. She leaned back, as far back as she could without falling onto the table, disgust and pain evident in her expression. She pushed hard against his chest, shook her head, but he kept at it, moving his hands up onto her neck to draw her more firmly to him. I knew, I knew, just by looking, that she would bruise from that grip; she'd bruised from much less.
I pushed the stupid girl away from me and leapt up, not sure what I was going to do. It was like watching some predator devour helpless prey in slow motion.
Somebody, dark-haired, moved towards the couple and jerked Amycus away from her. She collapsed back against the table, relieved and shaken. When she looked up at her savior I could tell she thought it was me, at least for a split second.
It was Sirius.
My brother shoved Amycus roughly, shouting, "Can't you see you were hurting her, idiot? For Merlin's sake, you are thoroughly sloshed . Go on! Get out of here, you lout, go home."
Laughter rang throughout the bar; Amycus flushed bright puce, but clearly didn't want to pick a fight with Sirius Black. Sirius made a flourishing motion toward the door, and Amycus took the hint.
"You all right there, Adele?" Sirius asked, grinning down at her. "Not going to bleed to death on us or anything, are you?"
She laughed; few were so casual about her fragile state of health. Sirius pulled it off quite easily.
"Nah, I'm fine," she managed after a minute. "I'll just bruise up a little. Guess I'm not made for hardcore snogging. Thanks, though."
"No problem, kid," Sirius answered. Before he returned to his table, he shot an inscrutable look at me. I tried to breathe through the guilt of doing nothing. Doing nothing to help the person I cared about most in the world, while Sirius, a mere acquaintance to her, had helped without a second thought, like the natural gentleman he was.
I settled morosely back into my chair and tried to take a few deep breaths. Slytherins around me carried on, cheerful as ever.
A few minutes later, the mood changed. Duncan Deborough, a seventh year Slytherin, stood up abruptly and winked once. "It's time I be getting home," he announced a little too loudly. The others gave a general murmur of agreement and rose swiftly.
I frowned and looked at DeBorough. "What's going on?" The amusement and good cheer hadn't fully faded from my voice.
Peter Rosier's face hardened. "Go home, Regulus. For your own good."
"Hey," I protested, feigning an offended tone, "I'm drunk, but I'm not that drunk–"
"That's not what I meant. This is about your brother. Go home – you really don't want to see it."
"What makes you think I give a shit about my brother?" I announced callously, so that everyone in the vicinity could hear.
"I dunno, it just seemed like you did."
"Not anymore."
He shrugged and motioned for me to follow him. The group filed out into the cold, snowy night, and I followed, confused and disconcerted.
"Straight ahead," someone called excitedly. I craned my neck to see what he was referring to. Finally, about twenty metres ahead of us, I noticed a couple strolling down the main street of Hogsmeade. The taller figure had his arm wrapped around the female; her head rested on his shoulder. She laughed, a tinkling sound, and he swayed slightly, obviously drunk.
My brother stopped when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and turned slowly to face the group. The girl on his arm shrunk back in apprehension – he stepped in front of her in a gesture so natural that it went unnoticed.
"'Lo, Black," someone called from the front of the group. "How goes it?"
We formed a tight circle around the couple, vulture-like, before they could respond.
"Evening, gentlemen," Sirius smirked, unperturbed.
The girl, clinging to his side, muttered, "Who are they, Sirius? What do they want?"
He answered her cheerfully. "Seems we've got Rosier, Macnair, Debourough, Penderton. . . oh, 'lo there, Snivellus, long time no see. And . . . oh? There's Regulus. Reg, meet Cammie. Cammie, this is my brother Regulus. He's a nice bloke most of the time. Do me a favour and don't judge him solely on this one meeting. Mob mentality, you know what I mean? Anyhow, seems they want to fight me – or, since they're Slytherin, beat me up badly and skip all that 'fair fight' nonsense. If they're feeling particularly nasty they might threaten to kill me, though they won't go through with it. Not sure, actually. I'm a bit drunk."
"Get out of here!" one of them called roughly, jerking his head at 'Cammie.' "We don't want to hurt you – just your idiot boyfriend."
"Go on," Sirius said gently, detaching her arm from his and smiling reassuringly. "They'll let you through. Even Slytherins aren't that low."
"But Sirius, what about you–"
"I'll be fine," he reassured her cheerfully. "Seriously, Cammie. These little boys just want to play a big boy's game. I might as well indulge them, no?"
I had to admire it: the nonchalance, the audacity, the unhurried wit, when he knew he might not make it out alive.
She left reluctantly. The circle parted wordlessly and then closed back up.
"Sirius Black," Macnair chided. "What to do with you? A traitor to your own kind, now a champion of Mudblood rights as well? Not to mention a key player in the pathetic resistance to the Dark Lord. You make me sick."
"Tell me, Macnair, do you still wank off to those pictures of my cousin under your pillow? It's a lost cause, mate, she's a married woman now. And you're still just a little kid. What is this, the wankers' club for Slytherins who weren't good enough to become Death Eaters? Ah – except – I seem to have forgotten – there is a Death Eater amongst your ranks. Regulus." He grinned and bowed deeply, stumbling slightly as he rose back up. "Sorry, little brother. Forgot you were the real deal."
"You would," I remarked, bitterness edging into my voice. "You always thought you were braver and better than me – you didn't think I had the guts for this."
A real flicker of pain passed across his face, just another part of his genius act to everyone else.
To his credit, he recovered quickly, pressing a finger to his lips. "Yes, I do notice a change. Is this how you decided you would put the infamous Sirius Black in his place? Fifteen sober kids against me? Well, you do the math; you've always been good at that. Should I lie down or would kneeling offer you more options? I can't make it much easier, but I could try. You have changed, Reg – I used to suspect I was better than you. Now I know it."
Silence. Angry, seething silence.
"Well, prove him wrong!" someone shouted at me. "One on one – take him down!"
I found that I had been shoved into the middle of the circle, face to face with Sirius.
"Ah, Regulus Black. The fearless Death Eater." Sirius spread his arms in a grandiose fashion. "Hit me!" he dared. "C'mon, Reg. Now's your chance."
He removed his wand and stood motionless, awaiting my attack. A small smile played at the corners of his mouth, an expression that tickled my memory. With a jolt, I realised he didn't think I was capable of dueling with him.
Last time, I'd been the coward. This time, it was him. I struck.
"Tercognatus!" I cried, slashing my wand upward. He tried to parry the blow, but drunkenness made him too slow. His head snapped back, blood spewing from three parallel slashes on his forehead. No one present recognized the symbol for what it was.
Presently, a voice emanated from outside of our circle, power-filled as any I'd ever heard before.
It took most of us a few moments to realize that curses were being hurled. In my case, it was too late. I froze almost instantly on the spot. Five more Slytherins froze before they could react. The remaining ones fumbled for their wands, desperate to evade the attacker's blows, half drunk themselves. The attacker spewed hexes and curses like honey, dodging and parrying blows with competent ease. The battle ended within minutes, and a dead sober Lily Evans stepped into my peripheral view.
This wouldn't end well.
He told how the earth was first built, long ago . . . every wonder-bright plain and the turning seas, and set out as signs of his victory the sun and moon, great lamps for light to land-dwellers . . . and adorned the fields with all colours and sounds, made limbs and leaves and gave life to the every creature that moves on land. The harp turned solemn. He told of an ancient feud between two brothers which split all the world between darkness and light. And I was the dark side.
--Grendel, John Gardner
