I am making no money. I'm only playing!
"To thine own self be true" belongs to William Shakespeare, like so many things Antony says: this time 'tis from Hamlet, act 1, scene ii, line 65.
"Remember, if the time should come when you have to make a choice between what is right, and what is easy" is from Rowling, J. K., Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (First Australian Edition), Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, London, 2000, page 628.
Author's Note: This chapter started it all ...
Warning: This fic has been a nice little play in the sunshine so far. Here that ends. As of now, this fic becomes dark and angst-ridden. It is either a strong PG-13 or an R.
I have changed the rating for the following reasons:
Darkness
Angst
Adult themes
Disturbing psychological content eg suicide themes
Drug use
Violence (but nothing overly graphic)
You have been warned. Have a happy fic ready to read after this.
Chapter 5: The Induction
"Remember, if the time should come when you have to make a choice
between what is right, and what is easy..."
Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
Seventeen. I'm seventeen. Yesterday was my birthday. If you're a wizard, your seventeenth birthday is supposed to be a great event in your life. It is, after all, the day on which you are considered to be adult - you can perform magic outside of school, take your Apparition test or compete in the Triwizard Tournament.
But there were no riotous celebrations for me. No party, no joy. In spite of all the extra privileges I gained, yesterday was the worst day of my life.
You probably think I'm being melodramatic. The harsh reality is that I'm not. Everyone says that being seventeen feels no different to being sixteen. It's one of the big arguments they use for saying underage wizards should have more rights. But it's not true. Not for me, anyway.
I wonder what people would say if they knew ... "Dumbledore's made another big mistake, he's too trusting." "What kind of fool gives a Death Eater's son a Head Boy badge?" "No-one should ever have trusted that Bond child ..."
But would there be some who asked "Why did such a nice boy go so badly wrong?" For I was nice, once.
I'm not "gone wrong". I'm just not right. But with my perfect Slytherin pedigree, how could I be? All right, it's not perfect. There are Gryffindors on my maternal grandmother's side, but no-one talks about them. Especially not Lucius. The last thing he wants is to be reminded that I'm Sirius Black's cousin. Not when I'm the perfect son he never had.
Draco disappoints his father so. Hermione Granger beats him in every exam, and as an added bonus, he's a stupid little coward. Oh, the disgrace to the Malfoy name. But really, who cares? Not me. But then, I'm Lucius' favourite. Pity for him I'm not his son. Shame he doesn't know what I'm going through now. Oh, what a shame. What would his reaction be if he found out?
In simple terms, he'd probably kill me. He's an evil, evil man. Just imagine his little cousin, top of the year, twelve O.W.L.s, Head Boy, Quidditch player, perfect Slytherin, a traitor to the family name. Well, it's not his name I'd be disgracing.
It's my father's. My father, who has played such an important role in my life, but whom I don't even know. It's funny, isn't it? I haven't seen him since I was three. I still have diamond-sharp memories of the courtroom that day. I was too young to understand, but gradually I learned that my father was a terribly evil man, and because of that he was never going to come home. But I didn't really learn that until he died.
He deserved Azkaban. No matter how loving a father he was, he was still a murderer. I can see that, finally, after so many years of indecision and uncertainty. And after many hours in the Hogwarts library, reading old copies of the Daily Prophet.
It may seem callous and cold, but I thoroughly agree with the jury's decision. Even if my father died three years later. I know I'm his only son, and thinking such things about your own father is a shocking thing to do, but he murdered countless Muggles and supporters of light, for no reason other than that they stood between Lord Voldemort and world domination. Or even because they were in the wrong place when he was in a bad mood. I can't feel sorry for what happened to him. But I do.
I've never told anyone any of this. No-one thinks my family is a pressure on me, but the constant stress, being torn between "to thine own self be true" and Lucius - I don't know how long I can take it. And there's no-one I can say that to. I have no true friends, you see, only Slytherin cronies and acquaintances I've made as Head Boy. Except Edwards, of course, but I couldn't even tell him, because the slightest mistake could destroy my image and undo all my work trying to appear to conform. And that would kill me. Slowly and painfully. I hate being so secretive, but it's the only way. Confused and alone, I've been looking for a way out.
That's why I did it yesterday; there was nothing else, no way of remaining true to myself. To die is the ultimate betrayal of all I have worked for. I've lost so much in my life. I can't lose me. But in saving myself in the literal way, have I destroyed myself emotionally, morally? Looking at the hideous mark on my arm, feeling the bruises on my shoulder and the pain whenever my tongue brushes my lip, I wonder if perhaps I have. Maybe I should have resisted. Maybe I should have died.
There is a way in which I am like the perfect Slytherin, identical in truth to my lies. I am a total coward, afraid toincur Lucius' wrath, yet terribly afraid of the choice I have just made. Now is the very winter of my discontent, to modify Shakespeare. And there are no sons of York to turn it into summer. Life's been growing steadily worse for me this year, ever since Voldemort's resurrection. And after yesterday, the very worst day of all, there's no end in sight...
Antony Bond lay silently in his bed, staring at the ceiling. He could hear his mother downstairs, and the house elf, Kilby, was preparing breakfast, judging by the smells drifting upstairs to him. He had woken to a sick uncertainty and almost consuming fear, and nothing he did could quell it, or even lessen it. The morning of his seventeenth birthday was a landmark. One way or another.
He lay, the turbulent emotions swirling inside him, then with considerable effort, forced himself to push them to back of his mind, along with the thoughts that accompanied them. Today was going to be a good day. He deserved a good day at last, after almost seven years of being the perfect Slytherin. But while the fears were content to be pushed aside, they would not be totally dismissed.
He groaned in misery and rolled over. The clock on the wall said that it was fairly late. He would not have been allowed the luxury of sleeping in if it wasn't his birthday. He sighed, slid out of bed and surveyed himself in the mirror. He needed to do something with his hair. The black curls were disorganised and messy. Can't risk my perfectionist image now, can I? Antony thought wryly, making for the shower, ignoring the gaunt, grey terror he had seen on his own face.
A quarter of an hour later, he finally made it downstairs, his hair wet and the sleep driven from his pale blue eyes. Excitement was beginning to course through him, but the fear was still there, grinning evilly from the back corner of his mind. Now he was downstairs, there could be no avoiding it, for he was going to have to discover his fate eventually.
He began searching for his mother, some of his boyish eagerness returning as his excitement grew stronger. He mentally cursed the fear for marring his morning. After all, it was his birthday.
He found her in the formal lounge room.
"Hello, darling," she said sweetly, smiling broadly. "Happy birthday."
Antony smiled and stepped forward, but stopped abruptly as a figure rose from a chair by the fireplace and turned, cold smile directed at him. The fear struck, swooping across him, making him feel weak. He knew the colour was draining from his face, and fought to regain his composure.
"Good morning, Antony," Lucius Malfoy said. Antony couldn't help feeling that the man had seen his unguarded moment. He took a deep breath.
"Lucius," he said, nodding slightly, forcing his voice to remain steady. You can't go slipping up like that in front of Lucius! he thought frantically, although inwardly, the fear was almost driving him insane. Antony made his lips move into a slight smile. Lucius acknowledged it with the slightest nod, and Antony relaxed. Slightly.
Alarm bells were sounding inside his head. If Lucius was here this early, it must mean... No! I'm not ready to choose! the thoughts screamed in Antony's mind. I don't know! I haven't had enough time!
"Antony," Lucius said coldly. "You are taking your Apparition test today." His tone told Antony that there would be no argument. If Lucius wanted him to legally Apparate, then it was all over. The choice would have to be made. The terror subsided and became a heavy, sick certainty weighing down his soul.
As Antony ate his breakfast and opened the gifts his mother presented to him, his thoughts were far away. This was it. All his deliberation and discussion with Dumbledore had come to nothing. The time to choose had come, and he wasn't ready. But how could anyone be ready for this? He was only seventeen! Too young to choose such a life, and too young for the alternative ....
How could he make such an important decision so quickly? He knew he couldn't, and for a moment, he felt like a lost child for the first time in years. Always, he had been mature and, under the pressure of his family, he had grown up quickly. But now, he had no-one to consult. He would have been glad even for the chance to speak with Harry Potter or Hermione Granger, Gryffindors that they were. He would have given anything to consult with Professor Dumbledore once more.
When Antony had finished, Lucius took him by the shoulder. Antony had to force himself not to recoil from that hated touch. He set his face in an impassive mask, hiding all feelings. For now, feelings could well be death.
"Are you coming, Andromeda?" he asked. Antony's mother nodded, a proud smile that made her son feel sick spreading across her face. Lucius led Antony out of the house, and, against his will, he followed, despair filling him. There was no way he could refuse. And he had a horrible feeling he would be unable to stand up to Lucius later in the day, when it mattered most.
***
Antony passed his Apparition test easily. His mother beamed at him, and Lucius gave a pleased smile that did not reach his cold grey eyes. But then, no smile ever did; his smiles were a liar's smiles.
As Antony returned to his mother and cousin, his heart sank. Now was the moment of judgment. A faint ray of hope shone through the dark despair inside him, that maybe he had misinterpreted Lucius' actions, but somehow he knew what his cousin was going to say next. It was an idiotic hope. He knew Lucius too well for that.
They Apparated back to the Bond Estate. Once they were back inside the house, Lucius turned to his cousin with a cold smile creeping across his face.
"Well, Antony," he said slowly. His tone struck fear into Antony's heart, and quelled all hope he had. "The time has come for you to make a choice." The smile was turning nasty, and the expression on his cousin's face unnerved Antony. "Everything has been set in motion once more. I wonder, will you take the opportunity of glory and victory, or will you refuse?
"Will you join us, Antony?" Antony could tell by the look on Lucius' face that he would not accept refusal lightly. So now, it had come to this.
Antony stood, fear rooting him to the spot. He couldn't refuse, but he couldn't join, either. How could he go against everything he had been taught at Hogwarts, and betray the confidence of Professor Lupin, who had trusted him enough to recommend him for Advanced Defence Against the Dark Arts?
Terrified and undecided, Antony cast his mind back to the discussion he had had with Dumbledore at the end of the term.
"There may be a way," the headmaster had said, "of remaining true to yourself, but still satisfying Lucius' demands. However," and Antony could still remember the penetrating glance Dumbledore had given him, "it would be highly dangerous and require someone of great courage. I cannot tell you what to do, Antony, but I have the utmost faith in you."
But what was it that he could do? There was no way .... To defy Lucius would be death. The memories that were even now pushing at the edge of Antony's mind for attention proved that. He recalled the last time he had seen Lucius' fury ... and knew. There was only one thing to do, one way to keep his wretched, cowardly self alive.
"I will join you," he said, his voice trembling with fear and suppressed emotion, and hating himself for every word. What am I doing? he wondered to himself, as Lucius shook his hand and congratulated him. But inside, he knew.
I'm selling my soul to Voldemort.
***
Lucius, Antony and Andromeda Apparated together into the shadowy dark of the Death Eaters' meeting place. There was horror in the air; horror, laced with the most insidious danger. It was there, but elusive, only definable to those who truly knew what danger was. Like Antony.
He watched, sick with feelings of guilt and fear, as Lucius approached the terrible figure of Lord Voldemort.
"I have brought him, my Lord," he said softly. Antony could feel the hairs on the back of his own neck rising. Voldemort was the epicentre of the danger in the place. Tall and skeletal, with white flesh and red eyes, he was everything from Antony's worst nightmares. And beyond.
The presence of such a powerful Dark wizard sent horrible shivers up Antony's spine. He felt his shoulder blades contract with a shudder and forced himself to relax. Even to someone used to the presence of Lucius Malfoy, Lord Voldemort was truly terrible, his dark aura menacing. As Antony watched, horrified, the Dark Lord spoke.
"Bring him before me, Lucius." Voldemort's voice was cold and high-pitched. It sent a myriad of images of cold, evil things floating in front of Antony's eyes. Snakes were prominent, not only because of Lord Voldemort's facial resemblance to one, but also because of his icy, hissing voice.
Lucius returned to Antony, and gripped his right shoulder, forcing him forwards. His feet wouldn't move, and he almost fell, but he forced himself to move his legs at the last moment, saving himself. Each step took the same amount of effort; his body seemed unwilling to do such a thing as that which he was about to do. Every step closer to Lord Voldemort seemed to Antony to be one step nearer to a terrible doom.
Finally Lucius allowed him to stop. He was bare metres from Voldemort, looking into his red eyes, livid in the white face. The Dark Lord began to question Antony, coldly and ruthlessly.
The interrogation that followed was the most terrible of Antony's life. Each time Lord Voldemort asked him a question, he felt himself being compelled by some powerful force to look into the snake-like eyes. He fought to keep his feelings of revulsion and his hatred of his own choice hidden. The best way was to not think about them. One slip would be fatal.
So, whenever Voldemort asked him a question, he replied promptly and with as much honesty as he could, all the time feeling that those red slits could read his mind, and bare his soul. By the time Lord Voldemort was satisfied, he was trembling inwardly, and fighting to keep an outward appearance of strength.
You must impress him! Voldemort gave a high, cruel laugh, as if he had heard Antony's thought. Could he read minds?
"Lucius," Voldemort said, turning his red, malevolent gaze behind Antony's shoulder. "Do you sponsor this boy, Antony Bond, into the Order of the Death Eaters?"
Lucius's grip tightened convulsively on Antony's shoulder.
"I do, my Lord," he said softly.
"Bring him to me."
Lucius forced Antony forward again. Antony was vaguely aware of his mother behind his left shoulder, but nothing was important beyond Lord Voldemort's gaze. It held him, drawing him forward with some mysterious power, and once more he had the feeling that the Dark Lord was searching his thoughts.
"Give me his arm." From behind Antony's left shoulder, Andromeda grabbed his arm, offering it to her lord. His own mother, an obedient minion of this ... serpent. Voldemort reached out and pushed up the sleeve of Antony's robe. Antony felt a shiver run through him as Voldemort touched his arm. The touch was icy cold, and the cold was not just on the surface - it penetrated deep, piercing even his heart. Every muscle was screaming in warning.
Voldemort took his wand and pressed the tip to the skin of Antony's forearm. The next moment, Antony felt a burning pain so intense that he recoiled involuntarily. He silenced the scream that has risen in his throat just before it escaped, biting his own lip. Lucius dug his fingers into Antony's shoulder, his grip cutting so sharply into the boy's flesh that Antony felt sure it could almost crush bone.
Tears sprang to his eyes, but he did not scream, if only because he was now biting his lip so hard that the harsh, metallic taste of blood rushed into his mouth. You must impress him! You cannot lose control! But it was almost too much for him to bear. Hoping for anything to distract him from the white-hot pain, Antony focused all his thoughts on the pain in his shoulder and mouth, forcing himself to think of Lucius' harsh grip and not the pain like a thousand hot knives were cutting into the skin of his forearm, forcing all his reactions into his teeth on his lip.
Finally, it ended. Weak and trembling, Antony would have collapsed were Lucius' grip not so tight. Laughing coldly, Voldemort removed his wand from Antony's arm.
"Yes. Impressive, Bond." With that, he signalled to Lucius to take the boy away. Antony let Lucius drag him from the midst of his new comrades, stumbling. He had recoiled. He had shown weakness. Lucius would be livid.
When he finally returned home, the boy excused himself from Lucius' presence. He ran up the stairs to his bed and, confused and alone, he wept. Wept for his lost innocence, for his soul, for the pain he had been unable to show.
***
Yes. The very worst day. Ever since, I've been able to think of nothing else. At least now I can look at the mark on my arm without flinching. The ugly, terrible mark, disfiguring my skin. The symbol of my lost innocence, my lost soul, my lost pride and self-esteem. For now, I am no better than them. Maybe I have the best of reasons. Maybe not. Either way, it's still the same. Whether by some miracle I find a way to stop this destroying me by shattering my morals like a crystal glass, or whether I turn into a common killer like Lucius and my father, it still remains the same.
I've sold my soul to Voldemort. And he is a demanding master.