Warning: Chapter is rated M.

Disclaimer: Godric is mine, everything else is JK Rowling's, of course.

Chapter 3

I have been a Death Eater for three months. Three months from my family, from my mother. I celebrated my birthday two weeks ago. Alone. I wonder how my mum spent it. Did she treat it as a day of mourning? Did she ignore it completely, pretending I don't even exist? Do I really exist anymore? The question pops into my head in that same voice that rings like an alarm every once in a while. Does Godric exist, or am I just this mask I hold between my hands? Who am I when I put it on? Surely I am not Godric anymore.

Would she recognize me behind this grotesque thing? Would she recognize me if she knew the things I'd done? The things I'd seen? Most importantly would she forgive me? Can I forgive myself?

These questions plague me. Someone has put them on repeat inside my head. I struggle for answers. I want them so desperately. But who can supply them? Excellent. Another question.

Harry used to say I should have been a Ravenclaw. I ask too many questions, seek answers for things that are better left unanswered. That night three months ago really shines as a prime example.

I am miserable here in Malfoy Manor. The people, if they can even be called that, make me sick to my stomach. Poor hygiene, complete lack of manners, and a good portion of them have been stunned a few too many times. Not to mention the filth that comes out of their mouths. That nasty word for Muggleborn…what have I gotten myself into?

I was inducted into the Inner Circle too quickly for me to second guess my choice. When I felt the regret, it was too late. Much of Slytherin House has a nasty habit of glamorizing the Death Eaters. Everyone aspires to be part of the Dark Lord's Inner Circle. To be in his presence, know his power, learn from him. And yet here I am, and I wonder 'where is the glamour?'

For once a question I can answer! There is no glamour in torture, no glamour in death, and all of those ambitious little snakes haven't the slightest what they are talking about. I have seen things, terrible things that play graphically before my eyes if I let my mind wander.

I will never forget my first raid. The target was a young man. I don't remember his name…I find it is better to immediately forget the names. He had helped a Muggleborn girl escape after a proceeding at the Ministry, and a spy had determined his location. Our orders were to kill, but not until after he suffered for his poor choice.

Bellatrix Lestrange had been there, along with her brother-in-law, Rabastan, and that hideous werewolf, Fenrir Greyback. I grew up hearing their names. The insanity of Bellatrix, her murder of my uncle's godfather, Sirius. I had heard about the lack of mental stability in the Lestrange family due to inbreeding. And I knew the rumors of Fenrir's taste for human blood outside of the full moon cycle. I should have known immediately how horrific the night was going to be when I found out who would be accompanying me. But as Bellatrix put it, "the Dark Lord wanted me to learn from the best."

I had been in charge of removing the wards. They were simple spells for me and I knew why I had been given such an easy task. I was along to observe. This was a learning exercise. But not like in school; people don't die in demonstrations at Hogwarts. With the wards down, Bellatrix didn't hesitate to blow off the door of the quaint little cottage hideout. I barely had a chance to admire the woodwork before it was blasted into pieces before my eyes. A little girl's scream pierced the night. Oh no. My heart stopped. Not a child, not with Fenrir here.

Rabastan had no problem disarming the stunned occupants. The man we sought was standing in front of his family, arms spread as though they made any difference in fending off four Death Eaters. A little girl cowered in the arms of her mother behind him, tears streaming down both of their faces. What are their thoughts, now that they know they are about to die? The question still burns in my head every raid in which I participate.

I was instructed to watch what happened and learn. But it felt like I was the one being tortured. I was forced to watch as Bellatrix used the Cruciatus Curse on the man. He writhed on the ground, eyes rolling in the back of his head, while his wife and child screamed for her to stop. She laughed. I felt vomit in the back of my throat, but that wasn't even close to the worst this family had yet to endure.

Fenrir pried the child from her mother's arms. The poor thing could not have been more than seven years old. Rose's age. The vomit threatened again as she screamed. Her mother was being held back by Rabastan. She was trying so hard to free herself, so hard to reach her little girl, but a monster was holding her back. I was reminded of the night I left my home. Would I be punished for vomiting here?

Bellatrix had restrained the man, who was now covered in blood, sweat, and tears. The blood seemed to be coming from his eyes. Had his vessels burst? No, Bellatrix had removed his eyelids. He was being forced to watch what was to come next. And, in a way, wasn't I in the same position?

The daughter was the first to meet her fate. Fenrir had pinned her tiny body to ground with his inhuman claws, puncturing the skin, causing blood to ooze out and stain her white night gown. She was screaming for someone to save her. The man and woman were begging him to stop, but the protest only seemed to fuel the sick delight Greyback received from the writhing child. I closed my eyes when I saw his other clawed hand begin to run up the white gown. The shrieks from the father and mother drowned out the daughter's scream, but I vowed to keep my eyes shut. What if this was Rose? Vomit was in my mouth, but I couldn't open that either. I didn't want any more punishment than this.

The girl's screams didn't last long, and I could tell by the cries of the mother and father, that she was gone. I opened my eyes. It was hard to tell that the night gown had been white only moments before. Her jugular had been ripped open and it was all the more evident in the amount of blood down Fenrir's front. I could have coped with the blood, but those eyes…her empty eyes were gazing at me. I fear if I would have opened mine sooner, those little orbs would have been pleading with me to intervene. Would I have stopped him?

I could not tear myself from those little eyes still moistened with residual tears. I watched them as Rabastan set fire to the wife. Watched the flames from the burning woman dance in the convex glassy surfaces now void of the life that fought so hard against that brute of a man. I hardly listened as Bellatrix giggled the Killing Curse directed at the man who was forced to endure the molestation and violent murder of his daughter and the burning alive of his wife. Neither of these woman had anything to do with the choice the father had made.

Bellatrix had to practically drag me from the scene, away from those eyes. She was positively giddy, and I would soon learn that she was always like this after a fresh kill. I was directed to cast the Dark Mark. I did it mindlessly. When I returned to the Manor, returned to my quarters, I was finally able to release all the sickness that had welled up in my throat.

I sat on the bathroom floor, my head rested on the toilet for more than an hour. I wondered vaguely if my mother would see the Daily Prophet article citing the attack. I wondered if there would be a picture of the Dark Mark shining above the torn apart cottage. Would she know it was I who cast it?

I fell asleep that night on the bathroom floor, those flaming eyes marring what should have been a welcome respite.

I became quickly obsessed with the Daily Prophet after Godric left. I kept clippings of every raid, every death, every mention of the Death Eaters. Ron and Harry used to avoid the room in which I kept them. They called me 'morbid,' accusing me of developing a fascination with death. They didn't understand.

In the following months, I had never seen Ron happier throughout our whole marriage. It was as though a weight had been lifted, a shadow had been removed. But that shadow fell upon me. I had never truly known depression. I had never truly experienced the kind of grief a mother feels when she loses a child, and after seeing that coldness wash over my little boy's eyes when he left, I knew I had lost my Godric forever.

But somehow the clippings were like pieces of him. I was trying to build a picture of what my son was now experiencing. That is if what was left was still my son. It was my way of being with him through it all. I scanned the papers, scanned every obituary to make sure my little boy was still alive. But did I even have any evidence to suggest he was still alive?

I couldn't think about it. Of course he was alive. I was convinced of it. But my conviction didn't stop the obsession. I would risk my life sneaking outside of the wards every morning to purchase a paper in disguise. Meticulously, I clipped each article and pasted them in books chronologically. Every time I saw a picture of that Mark glittering in the sky, I wondered if my baby boy had stood under it. Did he hurt people? Was he a murderer like his father?

I am still trying to forgive Ron for what happened, but it is so much harder now. Godric had tried so hard to win over his affections. My mind wanders to Godric's fifth birthday. Harry had bought him a mini broom, because I had finally agreed to let him try his first game of Quidditch. Godric would spend hours in the backyard quietly watching Harry, Ginny, and Ron play on clear summer days. He had wanted a broom since he was three, but I had waited until he was five to finally give him permission. He wanted to be like Daddy, soaring up above the trees on his broom. The look on his face when he unwrapped it was something I will never forget. I couldn't help but smile through my worry at the pure joy that my son's face portrayed.

Godric had immediately dragged Harry and Ron out to play with him so he could try his first time on a broom. Harry had helped him on it, standing next to him in case he fell. I stood on the sidelines with Ginny, biting my nails with worry. What if it went too high? What if he fell?

And he did fall. Many times. It was so sad to watch his face fall every time he tried, but he refused to give up. He would frown every time, but he would immediately get back on his feet and try again. The poor boy was dreadful. I felt terrible for him. I fear he had inherited his poor flying and lack of coordination from me. Eventually it grew dark outside, and Godric sat on the ground worn out and frustrated. Harry gave him a little hug, told him they would try again tomorrow. Godric had looked up at Ron, obviously in need of some reassurance, but Ron had looked at him blankly, saying, "Give it up, kid." He turned and walked inside.

I watched as my son's face fell further, and tears began to well in his eyes. Harry and Ginny headed inside and I sat down beside my little Godric. He looked up at me and said in the tiniest, broken voice I have ever heard, "Daddy will never be proud of me now." My heart broke.

I wish I could have reassured him, comforted him, let him know that he was loved, and that I would always be proud of him. But was I proud now?

My depression has harmed everyone in my family. I fear I neglected Rose and Hugo as time went by. I found myself incapable of keeping my composure. I would burst into tears while cooking dinner or reading the children a bedtime story I had once read Godric. When this happened I would leave Ginny in charge. I fear she became more of their mother than I could be. Perhaps it was better for them, but the guilt will never go away.

I became an insomniac. Sleep was filled with terrible dreams, horrific dreams, of death and torture, pictorial representations of what I feared Godric was experiencing every day. I stopped sleeping full nights. I would walk outside and sit underneath our oak tree, hugging myself, and letting the tears fall freely. I would remember all the times we had sat there, me stroking his hair until he fell asleep in my arms. I would pretend he was that little boy again, talk to myself like he was there listening. Sometimes, I would sit on his bed, stare into the mirror across the room. I saw my lone reflection staring back at me, but I was hoping he would appear behind me to let me know he was okay, to comfort me in my loss. Each time the same question plagued me. What did he see now when he looked in the mirror?