Joseph had asked Rabastan whether he would like to be accompanied to Borgin and Burke's and Rabastan had been very vehement in his answer – no. He didn't want anyone there, he didn't want anyone in his family to intrude upon this, his first chance to prove himself. But as he stood in front of the darkened shop, he wondered whether he might have been better off with company.

Borgin and Burke's looked closed to Rabastan and he hesitated at the door. What if it was closed? What if no one was there and the whole thing had just been a trick to torment him? The Dark Lord had been far too good to him for someone of his stature, and Rabastan swallowed hard, feeling sick.

He started to back away, but he had barely made it two steps from the door before it opened.

"Rabastan Lestrange…" The Dark Lord stepped out, extending one hand for Rabastan and ushering him inside. "We've been waiting for you."

Borgin and Burke's was quite dark, lit only by a handful of candles, and Rabastan looked around hesitantly. There were several other men there, all clearly much older than him – closer to the Dark Lord's age than to his – and their faces were thrown into strange, twisted shadows from the flickering light.

"We have a new member among us," the Dark Lord said. He put his hand ever so lightly on Rabastan's shoulder, drawing him forward. "This is Rabastan Lestrange… Joseph and Maria's son."

A soft murmur went around the room and Rabastan shifted uncomfortably, unsure as to how he ought to be reacting. He briefly considered bowing, but that seemed wrong – he should surely only bow to the Dark Lord. So he stood there, awkward and trembling slightly, until one of the men stood up at last and strode towards him.

"He's a little young, don't you think, my Lord?" he asked, standing over Rabastan and examining him, and Rabastan's heart skipped a beat.

Young.

He was young – not weak, not small, but young. If that was the only thing that they could criticize about him, then surely, everything was all right…

"A touch young, perhaps," the Dark Lord acknowledged. "But he will grow older, you see."

There was a slight tittering in the room and Rabastan forced himself to smile too, though he felt quite sick with nerves. He tried to wipe his hands surreptitiously on the inside of his cloak. A few spots were growing in front of his eyes and he blinked quickly, trying to get rid of them.

"Sit down, Rabastan Lestrange," the Dark Lord told him, and he took a seat quickly, not daring to hesitate for even a second. "And have a drink."

"I don't–" Rabastan began, but he broke off quickly and hoped that no one had heard him talk when one of the men handed him a glass of wine. He sipped it swiftly, hoping that – for once – he would be able to hold the alcohol. He had been told by the healers that the potions he had to take, just to be able to stand up and walk and look something like a healthy person, made his body react to alcohol as though it was much stronger than it was.

I'll be careful. I'll only drink a little, just enough to be polite.

He sipped the wine slowly, the set it down on the table and looked around, very aware that everyone in the room was watching him intently.

"How much do you know about our cause, Rabastan?" the Dark Lord asked, after they sat in silence for some time. "How much do you really know?"

"I- I know that you crusade for the purification of Wizarding blood," Rabastan said. His hands shook slightly, so terrified he was that he sounded foolish. "I know that you wish to put Mudbloods and Muggles in their place…"

"Very good," the Dark Lord said and Rabastan was not entirely sure whether he was being sincere or patronizing. He sounded patronizing to him.

"That is something that every person on the streets should know about our cause," one of the men said, looking at Rabastan with what he could only imagine was suspicion. "It is nothing so terribly special for him to know it, my Lord… with all due respect."

"All due respect indeed," the Dark Lord said quietly. He had taken a seat beside Rabastan and was leaning closer to him.

"What is it about this- this boy that makes you think that he could serve as a Death Eater?" another man asked, and another murmur went around the room. Rabastan tensed slightly – had they all been asking themselves that question? Did his age – and his size and his weakness – all suggest to them that he would be useless? Would they convince the Dark Lord that he was? Was he?

"Don't you all see?" The Dark Lord smirked slightly as he reached out and touched Rabastan's cheek. His fingers felt cold and sent a shiver up his spine.

"Sir…" Rabastan breathed, but broke off when the Dark Lord pressed a finger against his lips. He thought that he would melt, that he would collapse into a quivering mess at the Dark Lord's feet and only barely managed to keep himself steady. As soon as his finger moved from his lips, he drained his glass of wine, hoping that the alcohol would soothe him.

"He is a very skilled young man," the Dark Lord said, not taking his eyes off Rabastan. He wondered if he was able to tell what he was thinking and his face flushed slightly at the idea.

"Have you seen him fight, then, my Lord? Is he stronger than he looks?"

Rabastan turned and glared viciously at the man who had said that, clenching his hands into fists. He would have gladly drawn his wand and offered to duel him on the spot, but he knew that he would lose and he was sure that he would die from the humiliation of being bested in a fight in front of all these men… and the Dark Lord…

"I know that he is stronger than he looks," the Dark Lord said calmly.

"But you have never seen him fight?"

"Are you questioning me?" He turned on the man who was arguing, who instantly drew back, clearly horrified at the idea that he might be calling his Master's authority into question.

"No, my Lord, of course not, never…"

"Good," he said, not betraying so much as the slightest shred of emotion. "Now, you will treat Rabastan with greater respect than this, or I fear I shall have to issue punishment. He is one of us… or, he shall be, by the end of the night…"

No one seemed willing to argue with that, which was a profound relief to Rabastan, whose hands were shaking slightly. He was finding it extremely difficult to hold his wine glass and tightened his grip on the stem until he feared that he would break it.

"To listen to the Ministry of Magic and the Daily Prophet," the Dark Lord said, taking up a wine glass himself and slowly dragging his fingertip around the brim, "we are a group of madman who have no goal save to kill those who disagree with us and those of lesser blood. I'm sure that you have heard such rumours, have you not, Rabastan Lestrange?"

"Yes, my Lord," he said quietly, then added, "but I would never believe them…"

"Good," he said, his lip twitching slightly. "That is good. They are entirely false. We have little interest in killing – it is such a messy method of bringing about change…"

Rabastan tried to listen attentively, but his mind was becoming hazy and the spots were returning to his vision. Drinking the wine had been a terrible mistake, he thought, as his stomach churned and he tried hard to keep himself from passing out in his seat. The Dark Lord slid in and out of focus as he tried to look at him.

And then, all of a sudden, it was only he and the Dark Lord in the room and the other men were all gone and the Dark Lord was leaning very close to him.

"Are you ill, Rabastan Lestrange?" he breathed, his voice low, intent, and then he raised a hand and touched Rabastan's forehead as though testing his temperature. Rabastan's heart pounded against his ribcage.

"I'm… not ill… drunk, I think," he managed to say. His lips and tongue felt heavy, sluggish and a little numb.

"That's just as well." The Dark Lord stood up, everything moving so very slowly and it was all so difficult for Rabastan to watch without everything simply turning into a bright, colourful, impenetrable blur.

"What- what do you mean?" he managed.

"I'll be giving you your Dark Mark, of course."

"And… why should I be drunk for that?" Rabastan's mind was moving terribly slowly, but he was quite sure that there was no reason that he should need to be drunk to receive the Mark.

"Oh, it isn't that you should be drunk, of course… but given your youth, your innocence…"

"My innocence?"

"I take it you've never lain with anyone before?"

Rabastan blinked. Every word was moving terribly slowly through his brain, taking so much more time than it should have to pass from his ears to whatever part of his mind was dedicated to comprehending the meaning of a phrase.

"I've… never…"

"You needn't answer," the Dark Lord said, and his voice sounded oddly crisp and clinical. "I know that you're… as I said… innocent."

"I… I am… what does that have to do with me receiving the Dark Mark? Do you…" Rabastan blinked slowly, trying to clear his thoughts. "Do you r- routinely… go to bed with your Death Eaters?" The idea was both horrifying and terribly exciting.

"Of course not. Most of them have to kill before they can take the Mark, but you…"

"But I?"

"I think that you will please me," he said, extending a hand for him. "You're a terribly attractive boy, Rabastan – I'm sure you've been told many times…"

"No… not often… not ever…" If Rabastan's mind had not been so thick with alcohol, he might have been able to detect a note of sarcasm in the Dark Lord's voice, a hint of darkness and mirth that indicated that he was mocking him, but as it was, all that Rabastan could register was that everything was incredibly beautiful when he was so hazy from the drink.

The Dark Lord, in particular, was beautiful…

"Come now," he said, his voice low, smooth and devastatingly lovely.

Rabastan barely managed to stumble to his feet and follow him into the back room.