Disclaimer: he's not mine, I just like messing up his head. also, the phrases "black as a raven's wing," and "under cover of darkness" are not mine. thank god.
Warning: rated R for child abuse, and because someone gets offed. (Offed. I like that word.)
Spoilers: Um... I suppose all the books. Maybe just book four.
In his head he called them the dark children. It made sense. They were born into darkness, into dark families, and their lives were black as a raven's wing. The Arts they learned were dark, and the best, darkest ones would someday work at a dark profession, servant of a dark Lord.
There were five ways, he learned, of being dark- dark manner, dark ability, dark blood, dark past, and dark spirit. Some were acquired, and some were unchangeable, or so early learned that they were nearly unchangeable. All were important, but the fifth was necessary.
He was dark in manner. Quite often there was a sneer playing about his lips, and he insulted the Mudbloods as much as anyone. It came naturally to him, this one darkness- some had to learn it.
He was dark in ability. The first manifestations of his powers had been dark ones- telekinesis, for example. Once, when angry, he had given his father a nightmare. He'd been punished for that.
He was dark in blood, of course. There had never, he learned, been anyone in his family who had not been pure magic, who had not been in Slytherin, who had not quickly given themselves over to the training if they were accepted at a dark profession.
He was dark in past. He and his father were the only ones left in the family, which had only made the man more intent on making him dark as possible. During the beatings he had learned to close his eyes, recite things in his head, try not to know that there was blood. They all had, of course. Of course.
He was not dark in spirit. That was all. Not dark enough. Once when he was young his father had taken him out at night, with a Portkey, to a Muggle street. There had only been one person on the street, a boy of about seventeen. Filth, he was told. Take my wand, and say the words. It's fine. He's nothing. He wouldn't do it, even when his back was raw and bleeding from blows. There were scars from that night, but still he was happy when the boy got away.
The dark children saw each other quite often- whenever their parents met to discuss the rising of the new dark Lord. They were not innocent children playing together, of course. They had a society, a pecking order if you will. They knew that he was of the richest, most prominent dark name of any of them, but they also knew of his refusal to kill the boy. So they cast him out, and he would sit alone in the corner of the room as they all talked of toys and games, things that none of them really belonged to.
He wasn't the only one, though. Or the worst. One man had raped a Mudblood girl, only, amazingly, to have her track him down and blackmail him to take the resulting child. The child was about his age, and whenever they tired of their pointless conversations the dark children would turn on her, and taunt- "Filth! Filth! Filth!" When her brother had been one of them (he was older now) he had not stopped them. Only waited for them to finish.
He did not think the half-blood girl was dark in spirit.
They were allies, really, never truly friends. The day Leanna Mordreya locked the girl in the cellar "so we won't catch anything," he let her out. The time Victor Lestrange threatened to kill him, saying it was better than letting his family name be so defiled, the girl told him his magic was so weak he'd never be able to manage it, which among the dark children was a serious insult. They helped one another, but they did not play together.
They did not play together.
When they went to Hogwarts she was not put in Slytherin which, although it horrified her family, was not a complete surprise. Although it should have broken the alliance, it strengthened it instead, until it was almost a friendship. They usually talked at least once a week- although of course they talked about very little but studies and classmates, and spent most of the time reading one another's eyes and movements for what was really going on. They were, you will remember, dark in manner, and in ability.
They both went home for the Christmas holidays that year. He suspected that she went to be punished, and his suspicions were confirmed when, talking to her on the train back, he noticed the dark and purpling bruises her robes did not entirely hide.
He made enemies. You will think he made them out of love or hate or loneliness, but it was in fact nothing of the kind. He made them because he thought that was childhood, for he wanted to be a child, not a dark child or an outcast child, but a child. In this he did not succeed- taunting them was a pleasure, but it was an adult pleasure; in fact it would still be his one pleasure when he was an adult.
Although he had to admit, in his later years at school, that talking to her was also a bit of- a pleasure. Perhaps she agreed. Perhaps that was why, at fifteen or sixteen, they spoke for the first time of things that really mattered to them. The things they said were veiled, of course- years of training had made that untouchable- but they said them. He admitted to her, once, under cover of darkness, that he was glad the boy had not died. She whispered that she hated her mother for leaving her. This honesty terrified and mesmerized them both.
They were more a secret friendship than anything, really. He learned to hide his light spirit. He spent more and more time with the dark children- his aptitude at curses and poisons, as well as his surname, made it easy for them to forget how much they had once disdained him. But still, he spoke to her.
This might have been his undoing.
The day he turned seventeen he was eligible. It was called a choice, but he'd never had choices. His father had come close to killing him many times, and if it came down to that he would not have hesitated. He would take the dark profession, if you will.
He told her.
She had been seventeen for a few months then, but of course she was tainted and would not be made one of them. She might be married off to someone who didn't realize or, if she refused, forced into anonymity. Despite her blood, only half-dark, she would not be allowed to openly disregard her father's side.
He told her.
She spoke quickly yet haltingly to him. Please, she said. You can't. They /kill/. You don't want to- you told me. They're evil, you know very well they're evil. You /know/.
I have to, he answered. Or I'll be the one who's killed.
You might be able to escape. If you try- but you /can't/ kill. You're not like them and you know it.
I have to.
She looked at him and he saw she understood. "I love you, you know," she said. And the words, which neither had ever spoken to anyone, least of all each other, were their separation. The fact that they were true meant nothing at all.
Did they ever?
He felt the burn, the final darkness on his flesh. He noticed one of his enemies, the one who was just a bit darker than the rest. He spoke to that one, telling him quickly of how it was. And the boy, who was not dark in manner or ability or blood, nodded and agreed.
Spirit, he noticed, was the defining factor.
They ignored each other until graduation. Then, just for a moment, they stood beside the lake together.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"I know," she said. "I'm sorry I- said that to you. It wasn't appropriate."
Love, you understand, did not belong to darkness. Even when it should.
He knew what she was doing. What she worked at. He did not tell, but they found out anyway.
Eventually the news came to him that she had been found.
And it was only more proof to the Ministry that dark children could not be Aurors. Even if they were not truly dark.
And it was a victory to his side.
And he realized, as he should have, that it was not his side.
So he left. He looked back.
Then the darkest one seemed to die, though in the end he was resurrected. And the boy with black eyes and black hair and a spirit that was not black enough was a man.
He was dark in blood. He had not left openly; there was still prestige in his name.
He was dark in manner. He sneered at them all. Except for the nephew who had her eyes.
He was dark in ability. Of course. Fame is not all you can brew.
He was dark in past. Those things don't change.
But he was not- he had never been- a man who was dark in spirit.
Pretty please review? Please? Can you guess who it is?
Warning: rated R for child abuse, and because someone gets offed. (Offed. I like that word.)
Spoilers: Um... I suppose all the books. Maybe just book four.
In his head he called them the dark children. It made sense. They were born into darkness, into dark families, and their lives were black as a raven's wing. The Arts they learned were dark, and the best, darkest ones would someday work at a dark profession, servant of a dark Lord.
There were five ways, he learned, of being dark- dark manner, dark ability, dark blood, dark past, and dark spirit. Some were acquired, and some were unchangeable, or so early learned that they were nearly unchangeable. All were important, but the fifth was necessary.
He was dark in manner. Quite often there was a sneer playing about his lips, and he insulted the Mudbloods as much as anyone. It came naturally to him, this one darkness- some had to learn it.
He was dark in ability. The first manifestations of his powers had been dark ones- telekinesis, for example. Once, when angry, he had given his father a nightmare. He'd been punished for that.
He was dark in blood, of course. There had never, he learned, been anyone in his family who had not been pure magic, who had not been in Slytherin, who had not quickly given themselves over to the training if they were accepted at a dark profession.
He was dark in past. He and his father were the only ones left in the family, which had only made the man more intent on making him dark as possible. During the beatings he had learned to close his eyes, recite things in his head, try not to know that there was blood. They all had, of course. Of course.
He was not dark in spirit. That was all. Not dark enough. Once when he was young his father had taken him out at night, with a Portkey, to a Muggle street. There had only been one person on the street, a boy of about seventeen. Filth, he was told. Take my wand, and say the words. It's fine. He's nothing. He wouldn't do it, even when his back was raw and bleeding from blows. There were scars from that night, but still he was happy when the boy got away.
The dark children saw each other quite often- whenever their parents met to discuss the rising of the new dark Lord. They were not innocent children playing together, of course. They had a society, a pecking order if you will. They knew that he was of the richest, most prominent dark name of any of them, but they also knew of his refusal to kill the boy. So they cast him out, and he would sit alone in the corner of the room as they all talked of toys and games, things that none of them really belonged to.
He wasn't the only one, though. Or the worst. One man had raped a Mudblood girl, only, amazingly, to have her track him down and blackmail him to take the resulting child. The child was about his age, and whenever they tired of their pointless conversations the dark children would turn on her, and taunt- "Filth! Filth! Filth!" When her brother had been one of them (he was older now) he had not stopped them. Only waited for them to finish.
He did not think the half-blood girl was dark in spirit.
They were allies, really, never truly friends. The day Leanna Mordreya locked the girl in the cellar "so we won't catch anything," he let her out. The time Victor Lestrange threatened to kill him, saying it was better than letting his family name be so defiled, the girl told him his magic was so weak he'd never be able to manage it, which among the dark children was a serious insult. They helped one another, but they did not play together.
They did not play together.
When they went to Hogwarts she was not put in Slytherin which, although it horrified her family, was not a complete surprise. Although it should have broken the alliance, it strengthened it instead, until it was almost a friendship. They usually talked at least once a week- although of course they talked about very little but studies and classmates, and spent most of the time reading one another's eyes and movements for what was really going on. They were, you will remember, dark in manner, and in ability.
They both went home for the Christmas holidays that year. He suspected that she went to be punished, and his suspicions were confirmed when, talking to her on the train back, he noticed the dark and purpling bruises her robes did not entirely hide.
He made enemies. You will think he made them out of love or hate or loneliness, but it was in fact nothing of the kind. He made them because he thought that was childhood, for he wanted to be a child, not a dark child or an outcast child, but a child. In this he did not succeed- taunting them was a pleasure, but it was an adult pleasure; in fact it would still be his one pleasure when he was an adult.
Although he had to admit, in his later years at school, that talking to her was also a bit of- a pleasure. Perhaps she agreed. Perhaps that was why, at fifteen or sixteen, they spoke for the first time of things that really mattered to them. The things they said were veiled, of course- years of training had made that untouchable- but they said them. He admitted to her, once, under cover of darkness, that he was glad the boy had not died. She whispered that she hated her mother for leaving her. This honesty terrified and mesmerized them both.
They were more a secret friendship than anything, really. He learned to hide his light spirit. He spent more and more time with the dark children- his aptitude at curses and poisons, as well as his surname, made it easy for them to forget how much they had once disdained him. But still, he spoke to her.
This might have been his undoing.
The day he turned seventeen he was eligible. It was called a choice, but he'd never had choices. His father had come close to killing him many times, and if it came down to that he would not have hesitated. He would take the dark profession, if you will.
He told her.
She had been seventeen for a few months then, but of course she was tainted and would not be made one of them. She might be married off to someone who didn't realize or, if she refused, forced into anonymity. Despite her blood, only half-dark, she would not be allowed to openly disregard her father's side.
He told her.
She spoke quickly yet haltingly to him. Please, she said. You can't. They /kill/. You don't want to- you told me. They're evil, you know very well they're evil. You /know/.
I have to, he answered. Or I'll be the one who's killed.
You might be able to escape. If you try- but you /can't/ kill. You're not like them and you know it.
I have to.
She looked at him and he saw she understood. "I love you, you know," she said. And the words, which neither had ever spoken to anyone, least of all each other, were their separation. The fact that they were true meant nothing at all.
Did they ever?
He felt the burn, the final darkness on his flesh. He noticed one of his enemies, the one who was just a bit darker than the rest. He spoke to that one, telling him quickly of how it was. And the boy, who was not dark in manner or ability or blood, nodded and agreed.
Spirit, he noticed, was the defining factor.
They ignored each other until graduation. Then, just for a moment, they stood beside the lake together.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"I know," she said. "I'm sorry I- said that to you. It wasn't appropriate."
Love, you understand, did not belong to darkness. Even when it should.
He knew what she was doing. What she worked at. He did not tell, but they found out anyway.
Eventually the news came to him that she had been found.
And it was only more proof to the Ministry that dark children could not be Aurors. Even if they were not truly dark.
And it was a victory to his side.
And he realized, as he should have, that it was not his side.
So he left. He looked back.
Then the darkest one seemed to die, though in the end he was resurrected. And the boy with black eyes and black hair and a spirit that was not black enough was a man.
He was dark in blood. He had not left openly; there was still prestige in his name.
He was dark in manner. He sneered at them all. Except for the nephew who had her eyes.
He was dark in ability. Of course. Fame is not all you can brew.
He was dark in past. Those things don't change.
But he was not- he had never been- a man who was dark in spirit.
Pretty please review? Please? Can you guess who it is?