Author's note: Thanky to Marauder3Moony, for kindly reviewing the previous chapter. Poor Remus, indeed...

Chapter Fourteen: To Bond, to Beckon, to Break

Remus perched on the edge of the third pew from the back on the left side of the aisle in St. Joseph's. It was five minutes to three, and he was resting before his meeting with the Dark Lord, still amazed that he had managed to get to the church in his current state. It had taken nearly the whole bottle of Pepper-up Potion, several charms to disguise the steam sprouting from his ears, and almost two hours of shaky walking, frequently interrupted with long breaks. The church housed more people today than it had previously, and luckily the priest was too preoccupied hearing confessions to notice that his strange guest had returned—Remus was not in the mood to answer any questions.

At three o'clock, Remus stood and walked slowly down the aisle, carefully controlling his gait so that it would not seem as though he were drunk. He turned and entered the confessional farthest to the right. Instantly, he knew that something was wrong. He could not smell Voldemort's scent; it was a different priest.

"Obliviate," he muttered, pointing his wand at the priest behind the curtain. He walked out of the booth and back into the church. No one appeared to have noticed that his presumed confession had taken less than thirty seconds. He strode up the aisle, falsely confident, exiting the church as quickly as his body would allow. Uncertain of what to do next—all he knew was that he should stay in the area around the church to be contacted—he crossed the street and sat down on a bench.

"This spot taken?" a voice asked a few moments later. Remus looked up and shook his head. A slight, fragile-looking woman with waves of auburn hair and wide gold-green eyes sat next to him. Casually, she crossed her legs and put a newspaper on the bench between them, holding a magazine in her hands, which she promptly began to read. Looking down at the newspaper disinterestedly, Remus saw a patch of off-white parchment sticking out from underneath the pile. He could just see four letters written on it: L-U-P-I. He glanced at the woman; she was absorbed in her reading.

Surely, she can't be a Death Eater…

Offhandedly, Remus asked, "Mind if I check the stocks?" The woman's mouth twitched ever so slightly, and he could see a glint of satisfaction in her eyes.

"Sure," she murmured, still apparently engrossed in her magazine. Remus picked up the business section of the paper and the fragment of parchment. He opened the news to the page that contained the stocks, carefully shifting it so that he could read the note.

Lupin—
Five blocks to the charter school. Fifteen minutes.

Remus fought the urge to bare his teeth in annoyance. He had been waiting for five minutes, he calculated, which gave him less than ten to get to the school. He put the newspaper down with a quiet word of thanks and stood. Voldemort had to know the state Remus was in. He's playing with me, Remus thought. But he won't beat me, he added silently, turning into an alleyway that he knew was a shortcut.

He was nearly halfway to the charter school when he picked up the sound of footsteps. Remus pricked his ears, carefully silencing his own tread. Several people were converging on him from all directions, including above him, on rooftops and fire escapes. He sniffed at the wind, sorting through the various aromas of the alleyway. They were not humans; they were wizards. And they were setting a trap for him, a trap that he had to allow to be sprung—ironically, for his own safety.

At first he spied only one person, masked, shrouded in black, watching him inconspicuously from a fire escape. Then more appeared, forming a ragged circle around him as though it were an expected routine. He glanced around the circle, gazing at each one. He had originally hoped to glimpse a face or some defining feature, but all he could see were narrowed eyes leering at him from behind the slits of the Death Eaters' masks; beyond that, he was only able to determine each person's sex and age based on their individual scents.

A ripple went through the circle, a heavy metallic aroma assaulted Remus' nose, and suddenly Voldemort arrived. Remus immediately fell to his knees and bowed his head, hating every moment that his neck was exposed to the killer that stood above him. He sensed Voldemort's gaze upon him, intense and probing. Then the Dark Lord's feet moved as he began to pace around the circle of Death Eaters, staring into the masked faces sneeringly.

"My followers," he announced, so that everyone could hear. "I am certain that many of you know the man who kneels before me—Remus Lupin. You are all well aware that he was part of the opposition in the first war. And yet here he is," he continued coldly and almost merrily. "His so-called allies have abandoned him, and now he has turned to us. I have tested him already, and he has shown his worth by aiding me in the execution of the traitor Trace Parker."

Remus' stomach lurched and his vision blurred as a memory came rushing back.

"Stupefy!" A flash of red light hit him in the snout. A voice in his head, that hated, familiar voice that prevented him from roaming under the starlight, from Hunting, muttered something. Snarling, he shoved the voice away and leapt at the human that dared enter his territory without permission. Wide blue eyes and a glimmer of blond hair caught his attention for just a moment, and then he was biting, tearing—

The memory abruptly cut off, gone as quickly as it had come. Remus clenched his jaw, forcing his body to stop shaking, and swallowed hard, imagining the tang of blood on his tongue. He risked a glance at Voldemort, who was still addressing his followers—no one seemed to have noticed anything unusual.

"—first werewolf to come to our side, and he has promised to recruit others of his kind," Voldemort was saying. He turned to the man kneeling in the center of the rough circle. "Look up, Remus," he commanded. Oddly compelled to obey, half of him insisting that he defy the compulsion, he did as Voldemort ordered.

The Dark Lord's scarlet eyes seared into Remus'. He felt the faint beginnings of a headache, as though his mind were being tugged at the edges. Legilimency, he realized. Or at least an attempt. Someone didn't do his research on werewolves. He stifled a humorless laugh; it was not a very widely known fact that werewolves were able to resist Legilimens—a dual nature was stronger than a singular mind, after all—but the fact could be found. As the tugging on his mind grew more insistent, Remus felt the wolf within stir. Though it was subdued, it managed to raise its head and snarl menacingly at the intruder. For once, Remus joined the wolf, unintentionally mimicking its demeanor in his thoughts, picturing himself as an alpha wolf asserting his dominance. Voldemort, for a fraction of a second, appeared taken aback. Then Remus realized that he was staring too defiantly at the Dark Lord and he looked down again, not wanting to seem overly bold.

Voldemort's crimson eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and he turned back to his Death Eaters. Remus could smell their restlessness. They had watched the silent struggle between their master and the newest convert motionlessly, and Remus was unable to tell if they knew how it had ended, or if they even cared.

"Now we shall accept Remus into our ranks with the final rite," Voldemort declared, a challenge in his voice. Remus kept his eyes on the ground as the Dark Lord drew closer, wondering what was about to happen to him. Voldemort halted in front of him. "Your left arm," he hissed, voice low and sinister. Remus closed his eyes, resigned, knowing what was to come. He raised his arm as commanded.

Voldemort's fingers were icy and surprisingly strong. He pushed Remus' sleeve back roughly, and then he drew a small, wicked-looking dagger.

"Every Death Eater must be willing to shed his blood for the cause," he stated. "Are you willing, Remus Lupin?"

Remus glanced up into the Dark Lord's scarlet eyes, casting about for a half-truth. "I am," he replied. "I will fight." You, he finished silently.

"So be it," Voldemort said, and plunged the knife into the skin at the crook of Remus' elbow. Several drops of blood dripped onto the ground near Remus' left knee, and his vision wavered as the familiar tang reached his nose. He pushed back another flash of memory with an immense effort, using the pain of the blade to keep his mind's eye clear.

Voldemort drew the knife from Remus' arm. Then he pricked his own finger quickly and sheathed the blade still bloody. He placed his wounded finger on the gash on Remus' arm, and Remus felt an almost electrical shock as their blood mingled.

"Blood to bond, blood to beckon, and blood to break," Voldemort intoned quietly. The syllables seemed somehow more than just words; they were redolent with an ancient, unknown magic. He took his finger off the wound, whispered a healing spell, and then traced a pattern on Remus' arm with the blood that remained on his fingertip. His eyes blazed and a torrent of magic surged through the blood. Remus' eyes narrowed as his arm began to throb, but he did not allow himself to make a sound or otherwise move—the hurt could not compare to that of his transformations, and he refused to give Voldemort the satisfaction of seeing him in pain.

Then it was over. Voldemort drew away, looking oddly disappointed and wary. Without any manner of goodbye, he Disapparated with a loud crack. His Death Eaters shifted in surprise at his abrupt departure, waited a minute to ascertain that he was truly gone, and then cautiously began to Disapparate.

Remus remained where he was, staring at his left forearm, which was now marred by a small black Dark Mark at the crook of his elbow.

"He didn't scream," a hushed voice muttered behind him. Its owner seemed slightly awed. Remus blinked, staying motionless. The Death Eaters discussing him did not appear to realize that he could hear their whispered conversation.

"He didn't react at all," another voice murmured fearfully. "The Dark Lord will not be happy about it."

"You never know," a third person chimed in quietly. "Bellatrix Lestrange—" the voice was so low as to be nearly inaudible, as though its owner were afraid to speak the name too loudly "—was the only other one who didn't scream either, and look where she is now."

"He's one of them, though—a werewolf, you know. The Dark Lord may favor them during the battle, but when it comes down to it, they're all just half-breeds," the first voice protested. "They'll never be allowed to climb the ranks."

"No, I suppose not. Full moon was last night, wasn't it? No wonder he looks like hell," the third person whispered. Then the conversation turned to other matters, and finally the three bid each other farewell. There were three successive cracks as they Disapparated.

Remus was alone; he could sense it. He sighed, trying to rid himself of the faint buzzing within his ears. I've overreached myself again, too soon after transformation, he thought ruefully. He swayed very gently where he was, still kneeling in the middle of the alleyway. Then his vision distorted and he crumpled to the ground, unconscious.