The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 39 (Poke the Dragon)
October 11, 2000
Theo loved being a photographer, he truly did. That notwithstanding, the reporters got all the glory and recognition, and hence he'd been pestering the editor for months to let him do a story, to no avail. Luck came his way in the misfortune of others. Due to the fact that the Malfoys refused to allow entry to anyone besides a friend or family member, the scoop concerning Draco and Charlie had fallen into his lap by default. No matter, he wasn't going to complain about it! He intended to do his best, to compose a brilliant piece that would launch his career as a journalist as well as a photographer.
He'd hoped to spend the evening organizing his notes, but as fate would have it, he got sidetracked less than an hour after Charlie left. A fire call from Blaise, taunting him with a delicious commentary, proved too much to pass up. Although his cousin tended to theatrics, and Theo habitually took his histrionics with a grain of salt, he had to say he was intrigued. He floo'd to the Zabini home and found his relative chugging a beer on the back patio. He'd obviously had a few already.
Blaise insisted on pouring a pint into Theo before telling him the elusive details of his earlier activity. He then sprang the entire story of his covert theft of Charlie's hair, the Polyjuice potion, and his meeting with George at the joke shop.
Theo stared at his cousin as if the boy had grown a third eye, studying him, looking for the telltale smirk that meant he was messing with his head. No smirk…well, not that smirk. "You did what?"
"Oh, come on. You've been dragging arse where Weasley is concerned, afraid to dive in. Seriously, if you didn't want my help, you wouldn't have told me your problems," Blaise answered. He downed another several swallows of beer.
"Just for clarification purposes, how is this helpful?"
"I'm glad you asked," said Blaise, smiling. "If George ever discovers that 'Charlie'," he drew quotes in the air with his fingers, "was a fake, he'll assume it was you and attack you."
Theo clunked his glass onto the table. "Still failing to see the silver lining, Blaise!"
"Jacinta would see him as a brute, making you look better. And of course, if he never finds out, he'll think his brother was counseling him, and maybe he'll take it to heart." He snorted, blowing a trickle of alcohol out his nose, which he wiped away with the back of his hand. "Not likely, but possible."
"And if Charlie finds out and thinks it was me?" asked Theo.
"Ah…well, I can't think of everything, can I?" Blaise replied. He poured himself another glass of beer, though Theo refused a refill. "Besides, I gathered some very interesting information, which sadly Jacinta would not believe if I told her. She doesn't like me much."
"You don't exactly exude friendliness around her. In fact, I recall more than once you harping about her not being pureblood, but masquerading as one for years," Theo said, frowning. "What did you hear?"
"I've come to terms with her blood status," Blaise argued defensively. "I hardly ever slip up anymore—"
"Blaise!"
"Weasley told his 'brother' he's only after Jacinta because she's 'different'—basically, she's a conquest."
Silence. Stunned, furious silence. Theo snarled, "What the f—k? Are you jerkin' me?"
Blaise looked over the glass perched at his lips. "You know me better than that. I'm very discerning where girls are concerned, but I don't go around trying to hurt them. Stealing another bloke's girl for the fun of it…that's just wrong."
Theo was out of his chair, his body trembling with ire. It was one thing for a man to go after a woman he had feelings for, another to pursue a woman who was taken, regardless of his feelings…but at least Theo could understand it. To do so for the thrill of it, not caring who he wounded in the process…Theo could not, would not, abide it. Were it only his own heart at stake, he'd be tempted to play it down as he'd done so far, but Jacinta's emotions were on the line here. If that bastard thought he could waltz in, sweep her off her feet, and then crush her, he had another thing coming. Gone were the toyed-with notions of pranking or humiliating Weasley to get him to back off; now he wanted blood. "I'm gonna kill the son of a bitch."
In a flash Blaise was on his feet, unsteadily so. He took hold of his cousin to drag him back into his chair. "No, you're not."
Theo shook him violently off. "You tell me this and expect me to do nothing? Are you daft?"
"No, I'm drunk, but that's not the point," said Blaise, giving Theo a hard push that knocked him into the chair. "We'll get rid of him, only not by murder. You think Jacinta wants to see you rot in prison?"
"He's not gonna hurt her!"
"That's why we're here." Blaise stood in front of Theo, blocking his escape. "We could tell Snape or Mulciber—either of them would kick George's arse in a duel."
"So could I," Theo objected.
"What do you not get? You can't be the bad guy here!" Blaise took a deep breath. "We need a plan—and not one of your wussy ones."
"They're not wussy," Theo snapped. Yes, they were. Here George was planning to seduce Jacinta for the fun of it, and all Theo had intended was a silly prank. Blaise was right. Confronting Weasley directly would inevitably cause more problems; using Snape or Mulciber was unfair to them, possibly getting them into trouble if they harmed the jerk. And Jacinta…if she found out why her dad or papa was in trouble, she'd be humiliated.
Theo groaned and threw himself against the back of the chair. While Blaise had a flair for schemes, he also tended to go over the top into ridiculousness, and he wasn't scrupulous about the details. This plan, such as it was, had already been set into motion by Blaise's impersonation and revelation; there was no going back. Theo thought it prudent to be the one steering the new plot along to make sure it didn't backfire. Too much was riding on this to fail.
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September 10, 1980
Fiendish. Eager. Hunted. Salacious. Any and all of the aforementioned could describe the leer gracing Voldemort's gaunt white face as he leaned forward on his throne at the arrival of his minions. Before they'd even properly prostrated themselves, he uttered, "Well? Have you determined if any unfortunate child has been born on July 31st?"
Lucius cocked his head uncomfortably, and for lack of knowing what else to do, slid to his knees, eyes on the ground. He hated it when the routine got interrupted—not because he enjoyed the groveling by any stretch of the imagination, but disruption rarely proved a good thing. "No, my lord. We're still working on it. For sheer self-preservation we're relegated to working at night when other Ministry officials have left off."
He cast a sidelong glance at Yaxley and Rookwood to his left, both of whom found it convenient to let him be the spokesman and, if the situation warranted it, designated scapegoat. They meekly knelt in front of the dark lord, mouths clamped shut.
"Then why have you dared return to me?" shrieked Voldemort, rising to his feet and causing the three men to cringe.
"Because you summoned us," Lucius stated in a whisper. He winced and braced for the curse that was certain to follow.
"Oh, so I did." Voldemort settled himself back on his throne and wiggled his rear into a comfy position. For a long moment no one said a word, the Death Eaters praying quietly for reprieve. Finally Voldemort said, "Well, no point in wasting this time. We're due for another training session."
Lucius whipped his head up with an incredulous expression akin to asking if he'd heard correctly. Not only was the dark lord admitting to a mistake, he wasn't even angry or vindictive. That was just too weird. Lucius' expression turned into a grimace; perhaps the 'training session' involved the punishment he'd hoped to avoid. That sounded more like the norm.
"I'll summon your comrades," Voldemort went on, amused by Malfoy's overt anxiety. "Meet me outside in the field."
"Yes, master," and "Yes, my lord," came from the three Death Eaters, hurriedly rising to make a hasty departure before he changed his mind. Yaxley and Rookwood squeezed out past the figure coming in, who deftly blocked Lucius' way.
"Ugh—you, blondie," moaned Bella, rolling her dark orbs skyward. "Get your arse out of my way."
"Bite me," Lucius muttered, then sneered, "On second thought, don't. You've probably got any number of contagious diseases, not to mention your naturally deadly venom." Suddenly realizing that this was the first time in a good long while that he'd seen the mini-troll coming in rather than wrapped like a Christmas ribbon around the dark lord, he quipped, "Your tiny little mind figured out how to get out the door. Good for you!"
The sound of her shriek reverberated in the room behind him as he bolted toward the training field, to meet Severus waiting with several others in a circle forming with arriving Death Eaters.
"Nothing like the irritating, grating bleat of our dear Bellatrix," Snape remarked, poker faced. "I may be compelled to attempt an antidote for the eardrum scarring it produces."
"If we could bottle the sound of her warbling screech, we could use it as a war cry—bloody hell, wage wars with it. Wouldn't even need Death Eaters," Lucius laughed. When Severus didn't even crack a smile, Lucius turned slightly and looked over his shoulder, where Voldemort and Bella stood in close proximity to him. Only now did the Death Eaters begin prostrating themselves as the wench scowled murderously. Shit.
Bella took her place beside him, allowing a lazy smile to spread over her lovely features. "You're mine, blondie. You and the halfbreed both."
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Voldemort hadn't been kidding about training. As he'd done in the past, he divided his followers into pairs, most typically an older mentor and a younger member; the pairs practiced Dark spells, including new curses the master had taught them, for an hour or so before the real fun began—the much-anticipated duels…much anticipated by a select few, that is, and dreaded by the rest.
"This evening our display will vary a bit," announced Voldemort glibly, much like a game show host explaining the rules to his contestants, and sounding every bit as slick as said host. "The first two up will duel, and the winner will choose his—or her," he added, nodding to a smirking Bellatrix, "next opponent." He regarded the faces turned to him, waiting—some patiently, others nervously, others dispassionately. "Evan Rosier and Walden Macnair."
The two wizards strode forward onto the runway-like level section of the field reserved for mock combat, six or seven meters separating them, and faced each other. They made the requisite bow and simultaneously glanced at the master: until he gave the word to start the tournament, there would be no fighting.
"No deadly curses, including but not limited to the a.k.," Voldemort rattled off. If it weren't for the sub-par intellectual capacity of a few of his minions, he wouldn't bother with this qualification each time; he simply preferred not to lose any followers if it weren't necessary. No point in admonishing them to fight fairly, for that was just stupid. As he'd heard growing up in the orphanage, there was no such thing as a fair fight; one person was invariably more gifted, stronger, or more clever than the other. "Let the games begin."
He levitated himself into the air from where he could watch the proceedings with minimal need to deflect stray curses…and also, he just liked being up there. Rosier and Macnair, only a few years apart, were comparably matched despite the fact that Rosier's father had been a Death Eater for decades and had not shirked his duty in training his son. Lord Voldemort was not in the least surprised when Macnair, less than a minute into the fray, sent a slicing curse horizontally at his opponent, and the other man sprang upward to avoid it. Nonetheless, he wasn't quick enough, and a vicious gash opened on his ankle. He fell to the ground screaming more from fear than pain.
"Halt!" Voldemort called. It wasn't that he minded if his men played with their prey, only that such action might cost the life of his supporter. He didn't have enough Death Eaters for them to be expendable. "Severus, tend to him."
Snape immediately broke ranks to do as ordered. A few minutes of kneeling beside him, wand out, chanting healing countercurses had the young man back on his feet. Evan sheepishly returned to the huddle of spectators, flicking furtive glances apprehensively at his father.
"What the bloody hell was that?" demanded the elder Rosier in a hiss. "I taught you better, and you made me look like a fool."
"Sorry, Dad," Evan murmured, though the presence of all the listeners emboldened him to add defiantly, "It wasn't about you."
"Yeah, it was about me and my superior skills," Macnair interrupted, gloating openly and—although not his purpose—saving Evan from a good whack in the mouth for insolence. "I choose Terrel Rosier."
The older wizard shoved aside his son and Jugson to stomp over to the dueling field, eyes flaming with malice, his wand clenched between his fingers like an extension of his hand. "Don't f—k with me or my family, boy," he growled at Macnair before taking his place.
"I wouldn't dream of it, sir," Macnair sneered back, openly sarcastic. "You're not my type."
They bowed, and it was on. Purple, red, and blue curses hurtled from Rosier; Macnair deflected and dodged, unable to get in a shot of his own. At a green spell speeding his way, he showed an amazing agility heretofore not displayed, and dived into a shoulder roll to land on one knee, positioning him for firing. He got off two strong hexes which his adversary contemptuously knocked aside, sending one of them zipping directly into the thronged audience, who parted wildly and dropped to the ground for cover. Rosier's next spell, to Macnair's consternation, wasn't aimed at him, but in a wide arc overheard. Before he realized what was happening, the atmosphere around him grew thin and he found himself gasping for breath. An expelliarmus effectively ended the duel.
Rosier approached him leisurely, a cruel smile twisting his lips. "Enjoying yourself, Macnair?" His wand lifted slightly, just a twitch, and the breath rushed into the younger wizard's lungs, though relief was hardly the word to describe the sensation. Immediately Rosier lifted Macnair in the air, head height, and slammed him into the dirt. Once, twice, thrice, as Macnair howled in pain.
"Enough," said Voldemort. Just like that, it was over.
Macnair took his wand from Rosier's outstretched hand and crawled off the field, properly chastened. As per the rules, Rosier chose a new opponent, or rather a series of them, for his ire had yet to subside, and he wielded it ferociously. Travers, Yaxley, Rookwood, and Rowle suffered a variety of embarrassing defeats, and wrongly thinking himself nigh invincible, he did the unthinkable: he selected Bellatrix. A collective groan rang through the group, nearly drowning out her gleeful exclamation.
As predicted by everyone except Rosier, Bella trounced him within two minutes and left him weeping on the ground after her final Cruciatus. She faced the remaining Death Eaters, a wolf-like smile gracing her lips as her eyes darted among her comrades, many of whom made it a point to try blending into the background, even to appear invisible altogether. Her smile widened as she set her sights on her victim. "Lucius."
"Bitch," he muttered under his breath. He half-expected to see dog fangs in place of her teeth in her grinning snout. Taking out his wand, he made the lonely walk to the designated area. To his credit, he was able to deflect the majority of Bella's curses, and even to return several of his own before she flattened him with a hex that made him feel like his chest had been crushed by a giant's boot.
Bellatrix leaned over the panting wizard, smirking infuriatingly. "It only hurts for a few hours, blondie. If you tell me I have a sweet, soothing voice, I won't squeeze your bits with a new curse Rabastan showed me. Say it nice and loud for our friends." Her wand hovered over his genitals.
"You're insane," he spat at her, even as one hand crept downward for extra protection, which naturally provided no protection at all against a curse.
"I guess you don't need them anymore now that you've got an heir." The wand twitched. "Don't you think Cissy might miss them?"
Lucius grimaced. The witch was indeed mad enough to do it. It was an unwinnable situation, and to prolong it only made it that much worse. Disgraced and disheveled in front of his peers, he ground out through clenched jaw, "Your voice is like the tinkling of chimes in a summer breeze."
"Fair enough." She stood upright, Lucius all but forgotten, already surveying the crowd like a hunting lioness sizing up the herd. "Snape."
Lucius rose to his feet, swept his hair back off his face, and straightened his robes to a semblance of dignity before leaving the field. The only good thing he noted was that none of the other men were laughing; not even Rodolphus could escape her wrath, and they all understood how easily they might be next in this position.
Hearing his name, Severus inhaled sharply, staring straight ahead. He'd known it was coming…didn't make it any more pleasant or desirable. He'd never beat Bella in a duel, no one here had except the master himself. Damn it, he hated her! He loathed her with a loathing reserved for the likes of Potter and Black…well, maybe not quite that much, but close.
Shoulders hunched slightly, Severus stalked into the combat arena, wand clutched in his fingers, brushing his leg as he walked. A barely discernable bob of his head constituted his bow.
"Ca you see through those greasy curtains around your face, halfblood?" she taunted, enjoying this immensely more than a rational person could lay claim to.
"Well enough to see that my foe is…oh, how do I phrase this politely…bat shit crazy," he drawled, letting loose a trademark Slytherin sneer.
"Oh!" Bella flung a yellow curse that Snape turned aside with a flick of his wrist. One would swear she'd been stung by his disparaging comment, although seriously—remarks about her mental stability, or lack thereof, were such common fare that without doubt she'd become inured to them by now.
"Did I say politely?" Severus asked. "I meant accurately."
He tossed two curses in quick succession, which Bella easily deflected, and cast another hex so close on the heels of it that Severus barely leapt out of the way.
"Filthy little muggle spawn," she seethed, throwing a stupefy that she didn't expect to connect. "You need to learn proper respect for your betters." A red hex, then a green one followed, like Christmas in September…if Christmas carried the ability to blast off an arm or cause one's head to blow up like a balloon.
"My betters?" he echoed, averting the spells with two lightning fast moves. "I do hope you aren't including yourself in that category. I shudder to think my superiors dress like two-bit streetwalkers and wield a wand like a beater's bat."
Unlike her previous battles, Bella ceased throwing curses in a machine gun-like approach. She circled slowly, eyeing the wizard who dared insult her openly and attempt to toy with her. Snape circled along with her, realizing perhaps too late that he'd poked the dragon a tad too hard. He couldn't help himself, she begged for it…or had he merely fallen into her snare?
"Your pitiful attempts to wound me are as futile as your pathetic hope of ever defeating me," she said calmly. Her wand twirled effortlessly between her fingers, looking far more menacing than any beater's bat.
"You think highly of yourself," he returned dispassionately, continuing to match her step for step. "I believe I can safely say, speaking for everyone here, that makes one of us."
He didn't even see it coming. One second her wand was twirling in her hand, the next second—or maybe the same second—it was firing a curse that struck him full in the chest. A choked gasp escaped, the only movement, for he seemed unable to move a muscle. He was certain she'd not used immobulus or petrificus totalus…ah, yes, here came a creeping chill to confirm it was something new and dastardly.
"And that's what separates me from you—skill. That and blood purity, you scummy little vermin." Bella sauntered up to him, eyes narrowed, lips pursed. An aura of triumph emanated from her. "Shall we continue? What is the fitting curse for a halfblood bastard who dares—"
"That will do, Bellatrix." Lord Voldemort sent a countercurse at Snape that released him from his paralysis, to the witch's great displeasure. "You are supposed to be dueling, not verbally sparring. Select another champion."
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Sept. 10, 1980
I held another training session today. Very satisfying. It is of the utmost importance that my Death Eaters remain sharp, vigilant. Bellatrix, my most loyal, outshone the competition at every turn. She possesses a powerful natural talent, combined with years of practice—both before and after my tutelage. She soaks up my lessons like a sponge, I can't teach her quickly enough. I've never seen anyone competent to defeat her, except myself of course. If only the rest could compare, the world would tremble.
The entry ended, to Snape's surprise. So short, yet comprising a vision encompassing two hours or more. He slipped the book into his desk and double locked the drawer with spells no one at Hogwarts would know. A light laugh sounded in the quiet room. In watching the scene through Voldemort's eyes, the way the dark lord concentrated on Bella's dueling performance, Severus had discerned something he'd not noticed before. When Bella blocked two of his spells and returned a hex in an extraordinarily fast manner, he'd assumed it was luck or super reflexes…no, it was a technique she'd learned at the elbow of the master. In fact, he could feel Voldemort's pride in her work as an extension of his own.
Snape closed his eyes, re-watching the event. Direct the tip of the wand in a very small circle, scarcely using the wrist; at the halfway point, block the incoming curse; continue the motion to complete the circle, and cast a spell. Done very rapidly, it was both simple and extremely economical in dueling, yet until today he'd never truly witnessed it. Unless one was near enough to perceive the action as a spectator (unlikely) or unless one paid rapt attention to her wrist during a duel (suicidal), it was close to impossible to detect.
He took out his wand to practice the motion a few times. Aline was going to love this! And to think, dear psychotic Bellatrix had taught him something useful. Wouldn't she be peeved if she knew? The thought made him smile contentedly. Oh, how he hated that bitch.
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October 15, 2000
As nice as it was to visit the family, it felt good to be back among the dragons and their handlers. After a good night's sleep, Charlie had made it a point to speak to Borimetchka about the conversations he'd had with Draco, the most recent right before returning to Bulgaria. He'd been mulling the idea over in his mind for quite some time and, combined with Omen's attack and getaway, and Dragomir's help in finding Oksana, he had to concede Draco might be right. Adult dragons posed a lot of trouble and danger that theoretically could be eliminated.
"And so Draco suggested stealing eggs here and there to raise, the way you've been doing with Dragomir," Charlie concluded, looking over at the big man seated on the porch beside him.
Bori nodded slowly, stretching out his legs. "I think ees good idea. Babies like Dragomir learn to love the—" He hesitated to say 'owner', for can one truly own a dragon? They were sweet and gentle if treated right, but they had minds of their own, like children. "He loves me. Adult dragons, they vant be free. They haf families…ees much better to hatch a baby. The problem ees to get eggs."
Charlie smiled slyly. "I think we have a good shot at that. Once we find a nest, we can raid it, take an egg, and be gone in a couple of minutes. Now, I don't lay claim to talent like Viktor Krum, but I used to be a seeker, and I know several blokes who are quite handy on a broom…"
From inside the cabin, Oksana listened to the conversation at the open window as she watched Bori and Charlie. She hadn't been outside for days, not even to bask in that rare spot of sunshine at this time of year. Always in the back of her mind was the fear that if she left the cabin, something terrible would happen. It was irrational, she knew, but she couldn't help how she felt.
Behind her, a wet nose nuzzled her backside; she gasped and turned, then smiled and stretched out a hand to caress Dragomir's snout. "Thank you for being so sweet to me," she crooned in his ear.
The floppy ear lifted, along with his brow ridge. For the first few days after Oksana came back, he'd kept his distance from her—she hadn't used to be very nice to him, after all. But she seemed so sad, and when he approached her she'd petted him and spoken kindly to him. For two nights she'd even invited him to sleep with her in Bori's massive bed, an opportunity he jumped at. Bori never let him sleep there! In short, she showered him with affection and attention, and being a young, impressionable dragon, he ate it up.
Dragomir nudged her in the side, backed up, and wagged his head at the doorway. Curious, Oksana peered that way, failing to see what he was gesturing at. The next thing she knew, the little dragon was trotting out of the room; she got up to follow. When he scuttled out the dragon-flap in the back door, she sighed, disappointed and not sure why. A moment later his head popped in again and he grunted at her.
"You want me to go out?" she asked.
It looked distinctly like he nodded.
Oksana took a deep breath, twisted the knob, and opened the door. A blast of cool air rushed in, but nothing bad happened. Dragomir nipped at her robes, tugging gently, and she smiled again. "Just a minute." Taking her cloak from the hook nearby, she threw it around her shoulders, placed her hand on the dragon's head, and walked out. That simple action alone gave her a sense of accomplishment.
Dragomir whinnied at her as he frolicked across the dirt toward the meadow Oksana used to spend a lot of time in. So, the creature wanted to take a stroll, huh? She forced herself down the steps; by the time she reached the dragon, she was laughing to herself from the joy of being free.
As Bori rounded the cabin, he halted in place, careful not to make a sound. A flicker of a smile lit his face. Oksana had come outside! And there was Dragomir, prodding her along and reveling in her attention. His heart swelled with tenderness for his little pet…and for the woman that he had no idea how to help. He wanted to reach out to her, but he didn't know how, and feared rejection or worse from her. After what Sashko had done, would she trust Bori? Maybe, just maybe Drago was helping to bridge the gap. At least she felt comfortable with him. God willing, soon Oksana would reach out to Bori for support, and he would give it without hesitation or condition.
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When the door to the animal clinic opened precisely at closing time, Jorab groaned inside. Not again! Lately it had been one thing after another, and if he missed one more date with Livonia, she was liable to dump him. The very thought made his heart pump furiously. Since the dinner with Bayly at Liv's house, their relationship had taken a nosedive and slowed to a crawl, though he was slowly winning her back. The gracious things the kid and his little wife had to say about their visit to his clinic had been helpful, Rab was quick to admit. He simply couldn't afford to be pissing around or less than attentive at this point.
"Oh, it's you," he said, exhaling in relief. "Lock the door."
Wendolph clicked the lock into place, then flipped the sign to 'Closed'. "Is Dr. Gissell still here?"
"No, he left. Where've you been, Dolph? This is the third time in the past few months that you just disappeared for hours." Rabby peered at his brother, waiting.
"You're keeping track?"
There was a tone in Dolph's voice that Rabby couldn't quite place. Annoyed? No. Surprised? No. It bothered him, not that his brother was sneaking off, but that he felt the need to be secretive about it. They'd never kept secrets from each other! Well, unless one counted their father's accidental killing, the molestation by Uncle Varden, and the subsequent murder of Uncle Varden, but those were huge…was this something huge? And if so, precedent suggested it necessarily had to be bad. Rabby swallowed tensely.
"Have you got into something…some trouble?" he ventured.
"No." Dolph headed for the back room to feed the animals as he always did before going home. Jorab stepped into his path, and Dolph stopped with a disgruntled growl. "Get out of the way."
Brows dipped in irritation and worry, Rab crossed his arms and shook his head. "You're not acting like yourself. What are you hiding from me?"
Dolph tilted his head and grinned menacingly. "Rabby, I'm twice as strong as you. I could make you move."
"Yeah, you could," agreed the younger of the two, remaining motionless. He'd always been slight compared to Dolph's sturdy frame, there was no arguing the truth of it. Nonetheless, thus far in all these years, Dolph hadn't used his superior strength to get his way. "Or you could tell me what I wanna know. Have you got a lady you're stealing out with?"
"No." Dolph debated briefly in his mind whether to shove the man aside. Really, he had no need for secrecy…it was the principle of the thing. And yet, Rabby wasn't just some bloke, nor even just a friend, and when it came right down to it, he didn't like the idea of hurting his brother either physically or emotionally. It seemed best to start at the beginning. "Do you remember that time you, me, Travers, and Macnair—"
"Marshal," Rab interrupted automatically.
"Marshal. That time we took out a busload of muggles?"
A shudder ran down Rabby's spine. Oh, God, what if Dolph had gone back to muggle hunting? He nodded numbly. "Eighteen of them. Why are you bringing this up?"
"And Voldemort commended us in front of everyone," Dolph went on, conscious of the shame and disgust in his brother's face. "We were so proud."
"It sickens me now," Rabby hissed. He couldn't even look at the other wizard. "All those things we used to do…" He shook his head again, unable to express in words what he was experiencing. Upon noticing his oddly silent brother, he asked, "Doesn't it bother you?"
More strained silence. "I don't know," admitted Dolph, turning his palms up and heaving a heavy breath. "I mean, I wouldn't do it now, but at that time, in those circumstances…we were lauded for barbarity, and to be honest, I liked that. I liked recognition for a job well done."
Rabby felt like his organs had frozen inside him. This couldn't be. How could Dolph have fooled him all this time, whenever they talked of the past? "Are you telling me you only pretended to agree with me about changing our ways? You aren't sorry at all?"
"I didn't say that." He sighed again. "Muggles are—well, they're muggles…but they don't deserve to be murdered because of it. And yet, if they all died, I wouldn't care."
"I don't even know who you are right now." Jorab uncrossed his arms and tried to get past his brother to the door.
Dolph grabbed hold of his arm and spun him back. "You wanted an explanation, and I'm giving it to you, so listen! I love you, Rabby. I love working with you—hell, I even kind of love those stupid animals. But you know me; I get bored easily, I need excitement."
"Now you're changing the subject." Or, God forbid, going to tell me you've reverted to your former ways.
"No, I'm not. I've done a lot of thinking that brought me to where I am, and I want you to understand it." He let go of Rab's arm and walked across the room to sit heavily on the receptionist's desk. "Part of the reason—maybe most of the reason—I enjoyed being a Death Eater was the thrill, the stimulation…the rush. I don't get that anymore." He stared down at the floor so long Rab wondered if he planned to continue. "I'm not proud of torturing and murdering people, even muggles, and I—I do regret the things I did. I'm not going to beat myself up for it, but I believe you're right when you say we have to make up for the evil we did. So, with that in mind, I've decided to become a firefighter."
A pin landing on a pillow would sound like an explosion right about now. Rabby's jaw hung slack as he stared at the other man. "I…um…I'm not following your logic."
"Really?" asked Dolph, surprised. It seemed pretty cut and dried to him. "There's excitement and danger, which I miss, and I'd be helping people—muggle people. Possibly even saving their lives! Isn't that what you want me to do?"
"Is that what you want to do?" shot back Jorab.
"Yes!" Dolph said emphatically, then paused for a moment to let it sink in. "Yes," he said again, nodding. "It really is."
"Then I suppose I'm happy for you," said Rabby, not entirely sure how he truly felt. "This is where you've been disappearing to?"
"Yeah." He gave a lopsided smile. "It's a long process. I saw an advertisement recruiting for the retained duty system."
"Which is?"
"Like a part-time firefighter, on call at specified hours. I'll keep my job here, so you won't need to find a replacement." It pleased him to note the smile forming on Rab's face. Not only was Dolph glad to continue working with his brother, the idea of living in a fire station wholetime with a bunch of muggles made him nauseous. "I'll be called for emergencies via a pocket alerter, and I've got to go to training sessions for a few hours each week. In the meantime, before I'm hired, I've got interviews and physical fitness tests, literacy tests, psychological testing…a lot of stuff. I'm trying to do it the muggle way, but I figure if I don't pass something, I can always confund the examiner."
"Did you manage to pass the psychological?" Rabby teased, laughing.
Dolph chuckled. "Indeed. All I had to do was lie—or rather, make certain changes in my service under Lord Voldemort. It seems I was part of a cooperative team in which I took orders, led activities, solved problems, and engaged in a variety of stressful and high-risk tasks."
"Definitely sounds better than 'Death Eater' as a reference," agreed Rab, his mind still whirling. This was all so sudden for him; Dolph, on the other hand, had been working toward this goal for months. Nonetheless, it was a good thing, a very good thing, and while he wasn't wild about the notion of Dolph running into burning buildings—with or without a wand—he should be supportive. That's what brothers do. "I'm proud of you, Dolph. But I'm still glad you'll be working here most of the time."
"Yeah, me too." Dolph didn't specify which statement he was concurring with, perhaps because it was both. He gestured toward the door leading to the back room. "I've got to go feed the beasties."