Disclaimer: The situations, places, and people of the Harry Potter world do not belong to me. I am not, nor do I claim to be, affiliated with or authorised by J. K. Rowling, AOL Time Warner, or any of the various publishers of Harry Potter (including Bloomsbury Publishing Plc and Scholastic Books). The aforementioned are fortunate enough to own Harry Potter. I'm not. I'm just a fan.
The quote at the start of the chapter is from "Coward of the County" by Roger Bowling and Billy Ed Wheeler, published by Roger Bowling Music/Sleepy Hollow Music Co. It's from the album "Kenny", by Kenny Rogers, published by Razor and Tie Records in 1981. Thanks to Coquet-Shack for providing me with that information (at last!) after much searching.
As always, Merlin Talisen is on loan from the marvellous TQ.
Author's Note: Just two short notes from me this time. I was most thrilled to receive an email from noodles one day asking me to look over a piece of fanart she'd drawn. It's Antony from the end of chapter 4, and it's fantastic!
The second thing is that those of you interested in the relationship between Antony and Remus may like to read "Anomalies", a short fic which explains it somewhat.
Kenny Rogers, Coward of the County
Eventually sometime in that long, tortured night, Antony, his pain numbed somewhat by the lulling repetition of his tears, had fallen into a deep sleep. When he awoke, it was late morning. He had been allowed to sleep longer than he normally would have; maybe his mother was proud of his achievements the previous day. He lay awake, staring blankly at the ceiling, doing his best not to let his horror at what he had done overwhelm him. Rising waves of sick panic kept threatening to drown him, for no matter how he viewed it, his situation was the same. He was now one of the most hated and feared people in modern wizarding society. What he had done the day before was not only illegal in the severest way, but morally wrong. And there was no erasing the decision; nothing, not even a Time-Turner, could help him.
With a mraow, Makalu leapt from the floor onto Antony's feet. Glad for the distraction, Antony dragged himself from his thoughts and seized his cat. She purred as, like a child would his favourite stuffed toy, Antony buried his face in the animal's iron grey fur, fingers stroking her head, arms wrapped around her. Mraow, she offered again.
He was unsure how long he lay with Makalu his only companion. Finally, the cat's tolerance grew low and she wriggled in her owner's arms. Antony released her, and she leapt to the floor and began licking her fur. He dragged himself out of bed and dared a look in the mirror.
A blurry image of misery gazed back at him, the face painfully thin. The blue eyes had rims of red and the tracks of the previous night's tears were visible down the cheeks. There were smudges of darkness under the eyes, and a gaunt, haunted look in the face that betrayed Antony's lack of sleep.
He turned from the mirror, grabbed a robe and hurried away. He emerged from the bathroom with his hair damp and his face fresh but his spirits in the dark depths of misery. He searched for his mother, but she was not to be found. He stuck his head into the kitchen.
"Kilby!"
The house-elf's head appeared almost instantly from the pantry.
"Yes, Master Antony?" the head asked, wide green eyes blinking at him.
"Where is my mother?" Antony replied in a formal, slightly strained tone.
Kilby emerged fully from the pantry carrying a plate which she handed to Antony. "Mistress Andromeda is visiting with Mistress Narcissa."
Wonderful, thought Antony. He certainly wasn't going to have anything to do with her that morning. He thanked Kilby and swept from the room.
Once in the hallway, he stared at the plate the house-elf had given him. Scowling, he thumped it onto a decorative table. He couldn't eat with his stomach in such a mass of writhing guilt and revulsion.
He slid up his robe sleeve and stared at the repulsive mark. He had hoped, somewhere in the recesses of his mind that hadn't been purged of childish dreams, that maybe the events of the previous day had been an horrific nightmare or that somehow he had been washed clean by the night's tears But such hopes were childish and to no avail. He remained branded, his soul stained by the same mark that stood livid against his otherwise flawless white skin. He pulled his sleeve down and stormed away. He couldn't change what he had done yesterday, not without a Time-Turner or potent Dark magic. And the longer he moped about it, the more his negative feelings would escalate. He couldn't improve his situation if he was overwhelmed by self pity. So practical, he thought as he let his feet wander. It was difficult to keep a grip on sanity and practicality when every thought came back to the eerie scene of the previous day, the destruction of innocence.
You think too much. Such men are dangerous. He allowed himself a brief smile at the quote and the way the words, Act I, scene ii, line 195, in Julius Caesar, sprang to his mind unbidden. Despite his display to Talisen, there were only a few quotes he could do that with, mostly famous ones or lines from his particular favourite plays.
He paused, shaking his head. Moping around the house achieved nothing. He breathed deeply, then turned in a swirl of black. And paused. He found himself outside a door rarely opened, a room that had not seen use in fourteen years. His father's study. He gazed at the door with its faint carvings of magical creatures twined amongst and fighting each other. He reached for the handle, but his hand wavered centimetres from the knob, trembling. To open the door would be to face the past he had chosen to shove aside, forget, suppress.
But he couldn't run from his father forever, and now he was seventeen he was technically lord of the manor. He knew his mother had done nothing to address the issue of upkeep of the estate. The man in charge of his father's financial affairs had been in Azkaban for some time, arrested on charges of bribery which quickly became more serious charges of Death Eater activity. Antony decided he may as well attempt to go through his father's papers.
The room was spotless. Kilby was a dedicated, hardworking servant, and not even a room which had been unused for so long had a trace of dust. But it had an atmosphere of long disuse, and prior to that, misuse; the air was stuffy and musty, but under that was a ... darkness, an intangible feeling of dread. It was only because he was so used to the darker atmosphere of Malfoy Manor that he could identify that same feeling and put a name to it: the Dark Arts.
Antony cursed the dimness of the room, then remembered that yesterday hadn't simply been a loss of innocence, but also a coming of age, and as such he was now freed of restrictions on underage wizardry. He flicked his wand and the torches and fireplace sprang into flame, revealing the room in its full grandeur. The far wall was lined with shelves, each filled with thick leather bound books. Antony didn't bother to examine them; he had no doubt they held either family history or Dark magic texts. (Not, he reflected, that there was a great deal of difference between the two.)
In the final hectic months of Voldemort's rise to power, the Ministry had been too preoccupied to bother searching out evidence of the Dark Arts in a case so clear-cut as his father's; there was little debate over the guilt or sentencing of a man who had performed Unforgivables in front of two eyewitnesses the Department of Magical Law Enforcement trusted. They had been content to simply throw him into Azkaban for life and move on to the next case. No doubt they would have eventually investigated the house had it not been for the uproar caused by Voldemort's eventual demise. Because of this, the papers on the deeply polished desk which flickered deep mahogany in the firelight lay in the neatly organised piles they had been left in the last time Jorman Bond had touched them, fourteen years previously.
Antony moved closer to the desk, marvelling at how it had been frozen in time; the papers lay as though their owner had merely left them when he went out for the day. He had, Antony reflected, but that day had been fourteen years ago. Antony stood for a moment, staring. It was as though his father had only left yesterday, except for the feeling of disuse. He slowly sat at the desk and reached for one of the pieces of parchment stacked so neatly. He felt himself overwhelmed by a surge of sudden emotion. Had his father been the last man to touch the parchment he now held? He found himself imagining his father in the same place, reading the same document, with the same things on the desk, the same flickering firelight, but fourteen years ago.
Antony covered his face with his hand for a moment, then sighed and reached for another document. The papers were mostly written in a loose, flowing hand, with a signature and name Antony recognised as those of his father's trusted solicitor Marcus Randall, the man who had risked so much to have his father released, and been thrown in Azkaban for Death Eater activities. His mistake, Antony remembered, had been the Malfoy family trick of attempting to bribe Ministry officials. He had not been quite a Malfoy-quality lawyer however, and had failed in his attempt to influence the judgement on Jorman Bond's crimes.
Some time later, Antony knew the task he had undertaken would be more difficult than he had realised. None of the financial affairs of the manor had been touched in years. He sighed and searched for a parchment, ink, and quill to record the task ahead. There was none on the desk, so he reached for the drawer, pausing just a moment as he was hit once again by emotion. He pulled it open and picked up a quill, doing his best to ignore the image of his father's hand closing around the same quill. He searched through the drawer and extracted an ink bottle and parchment. As he did so, his hand brushed cold wax. He glanced down and saw an envelope, sealed with the family crest. Curiosity piqued, he flipped it over and saw, written across the front in an efficient, elegant script: Andromeda and Antony. He pulled it from the drawer. It felt strangely heavy, and there were three hard, thin objects in it. He frowned, reached into his pocket and took out the silver handled pocket knife that had belonged to his father. He used it occasionally to cut ingredients for potions. Where his father had acquired such a Muggle object, he didn't know, but it was invariably useful.
He used it to slit open the envelope, and pulled out two sheets of parchment. Then he removed three golden keys. He unfolded the first sheet of parchment and felt once more his father's presence, for surely it was he who had written this letter, and sealed it so carefully.
Andromeda darling,
I suppose the mere fact that you are reading this means that my
fears and suspicions have come to be. While my Master is still
gaining power, the Ministry grows more vigilant. We may win; we
have the power, the ability, and the numbers. But I feel the forces
of Crouch, Dumbledore, and your cursed uncle may prove too strong.
Should my fears be realised, Randall has copies of my legal documents, the originals of which are in Gringotts vault number 596. The key is enclosed. The other two keys are to vaults I have prepared for you and Antony, numbers 608 and 698. The money therein will suffice for some time.
Please know that I love you both with all my heart. I only hope I may live to see our boy grow. Please give the enclosed letter to him on his sixteenth birthday. Keep him away from Lucius.
With love,
Jorman
Trembling, Antony unfolded the second letter.
My sweet son,
If you are reading this, I know that all has been lost for me; I am imprisoned or dead, perhaps both. It is my greatest wish to see you grow into the intelligent, talented wizard I know you will be.
Antony, do not make the same mistakes that I have made. Do not allow your choices to be influenced by others. I am in a position where I fear I will not live much longer. Dumbledore and your great-uncle know too much, and the Order of the Phoenix are growing better organised, stronger. I am in this position because I chose this path; I do not regret it. But I am trapped, Antony, and was drawn in too deeply before I realised exactly what I had chosen to do.
Do not allow yourself to become the same. There are those who will expect you to follow their paths, because I know you will be a powerful wizard. Do not let them choose for you. Do not follow a path set by Lucius Malfoy. I was willing to be his protégé, but he is a man who will twist anyone to do his will. Do not allow yourself to be twisted by him. If you choose his path, let it be of your own free will.
With love,
Your father.
Antony let the parchment slip from his unresisting hand to the desk. Good Lord. His father had known. He had fallen into Lucius's clutches himself. And if only someone had taken the time to check his documents, to even glance in the desk of his drawer, to do anything, then Antony's stupid mother would have bloody well known and stopped the same thing happening to her son ....
He slammed his trembling hand down on the surface of the desk. The wood gave a deep thud, Antony's frustration muted by the timber. His father's words raced through his mind .... Do not allow yourself to be twisted by him ... let it be of your own free will .... The words swam through his head, screaming the unfairness of the world. He clapped his hands over his ears, and his head sank onto the desk. His cheek against the cold wood, he gazed at the bookshelf's flickering shape until his vision blurred and swam and he gave in to the burning tears.
Leaving the letter addressed to his mother in her room with a
simple note that said, I have my letter and the keys, Antony
stormed from the house, bitter self-pity and fury filling his
mind.
"I'll be back much later, Kilby!" he shouted as he left, slamming the front door to the best of his ability. He strode to the limits of the wards and Apparated to London.
The three keys jingled in his pocket as he entered the marble magnificence that was Gringotts. He presented the keys to a leering goblin and endured the sickening lurching of the cart ride to the first vault. It held an assortment of yellowed documents, their black ink fading. He knelt and examined them, leafing through the old sheets of parchment. He put his head in one hand and swore. Everything was there: will, legal certificates, financial records fourteen years out of date .... He felt bitter bile rising. Sick with anger and overwhelmed by the unfairness of it, he slammed his hand into the wall, not noticing the jolting pain that shot up his arm. If these documents were right, his life need never have taken this cursed path.
Visits to the other two vaults reinforced the bitterness, setting it in stone to sit in the pit of his stomach. The vaults were piled high with gold, the missing part of Jorman Bond XXIV's fortune. Antony filled a small pouch with Galleons and after another lurching cart ride which he did not even notice in his foul mood, emerged into the winter day. The weak sun shone through gaps in the clouds, but its cheer and warmth were lost on Antony.
He sat outside Florean Fortescue's, scowling into his ice cream. He swore again, softly but bitterly. Lucius need never have come into his life. For Antony could remember a heated argument he had once heard between his mother and grandmother just after his maternal grandfather's death.
"Well, Andromeda, now you can keep Lucius Malfoy away from you son," his grandmother said, her voice holding a choked anger. "Although I suppose you prefer only to think of the money your father left you, not the good you could do Antony with it!"
"Mother," his mother snapped, "Lucius has lent us support and guidance. I at least have the grace to be grateful for it."
"'Lent' support is right, Andromeda! No Malfoy does anything for free. No matter how much he may 'care' about you and Antony, Lucius never gave money out of the kindness of the piece of stone he calls his heart!"
"Then why does he donate to charity?" Andromeda spat. "May I remind you, mother, that I was desperate? My husband's money vanished when he went to prison! I had nothing to raise my son with!"
"Because you squandered the money you had with not a thought to the future! You could have asked me! I would have done anything to stop that murdering Death Eater scum having anything to do with my grandson."
"GET OUT!"
Antony's grandmother swept from the room. Sitting in the hallway, drawn by the sound of raised voices, her grandson frowned, not quite understanding all he had heard.
Her grandson understood now. He understood that Lucius had only been allowed into his life because the precautions his father took to ensure he was provided for had backfired. He understood that his father's fortune had vanished because showing considerable foresight and knowing his plight, Jorman Bond had arranged for most of his money to be placed in vaults for his son and wife, insuring against confiscation by the Ministry, loss of his will ... anything but Andromeda's foolishness.
Showing no financial management and too grief-stricken to look through her husband's papers, she had continued to spoil herself and her son. Poor financial management of the manor and extravagant spending had left her facing financial disaster. How much aid Lucius had given, Antony did not know. But he did know the price, a price Lucius had never mentioned: the filthy mark on Antony's arm.
He abandoned his half-finished ice cream and rose. Not caring where his feet led him, he wandered aimlessly for some time. He gazed idly into shop windows, bitterness sinking into his soul and throwing him into despondency. He wandered into and out of shops, making the occasional purchase, but without paying much attention to what he was doing. As he passed Eeylops, the birds ruffled their feathers, hooted, blinked, and regarded him.
He would need an owl to communicate with Lucius, he realised with a grimace. He entered the shop and was greeted by hundreds of glittering eyes regarding him. A chorus of hoots and screeches met his ears as he glanced lazily around. A rich smell of warm feathers filled his nostrils. There were fluffy creatures that would fit on his hand, tawny owls blinking slowly at him, snowy owls with their plumage white as summer clouds, barn owls letting out chilling screams .... He moved slowly through the shop, regarding these birds and more, until he stopped in front of one. It greeted him with an unblinking orange gaze. The bird was enormous, one of the largest in sight. Its throat and chest were cream and brown marked, and its feathers brown with pale bars. It regarded Antony for another moment before moaning, "Woo-hoo," in a low, mournful voice. Antony smiled.
"I know how you feel," he said. A sales assistant hurried from behind the counter to speak to him.
"Ah, sir, a fine bird, isn't she?" she said, gesturing at the bird. "The powerful owl, ninox strenua. They're native to the east coast of Australia. This is a fairly young bird; she may not even be fully grown yet."
"Thank you," Antony said, studying the owl. She blinked her bright eyes and emitted another slow hoot. "What's her temperament like?"
"She's a very shy bird. She's not very noisy, and provided you keep her fed, she's happy."
"What does she eat?"
"She'll eat any owl food, but in the wild they eat small mammals and medium-sized birds."
Antony nodded. "Ferrets?" he asked, smirking.
The saleswoman paused for a moment at his expression, then coolly said, "She would if they were native to Australia, I'm sure sir."
Antony snickered to himself. "I'll take her."
Antony slumped into the darkness that was the corner of the Leaky Cauldron. He sat back, swirling the Butterbeer in his glass and watching moodily as it twisted, the slight foam eddying amongst the clear golden liquid. The owl watched him with a glitter in her eye.
"You need a name," he told her. She ruffled her feathers at him. "A name for the owl who is to bring me foul tidings from Malfoy Manor," he mused. He sipped his drink and studied her. "I don't think you need an Australian name. I already chose a name for the place of origin when I named Makalu. She's what the Americans call a 'Himalayan Blue', you realise." He paused, then let out a bitter laugh. "I know. Ma'at. The Egyptian goddess of truth and justice. Justice. Hah!" With his bitter words he took a long draught from his drink, wishing it was somewhat stronger.
"Well, well. Who do we have here?" said a silky voice that made Antony sit up and stare.
"Professor -" But the hooded figure held up a hand, managing to make even that simple action look menacing.
"I have some strong words for you, Mr Bond. I do trust you will not ignore them?"
"That depends on what they are," Antony replied, evasive.
"Did you have a nice seventeenth birthday?" Snape asked, sliding into the seat opposite the boy. Antony stared into his drink.
"Why do you ask?"
"Because," Snape snapped, an iron-like hand suddenly on Antony's left arm, "I saw a young fool sell his soul to Lord Voldemort yesterday. I just wanted to know if he enjoyed the experience." Snape's grip loosened. Antony averted his gaze from the Butterbeer for a moment. His eyes flicked into the darkness of Snape's hood and were met by glittering spots of black fury.
He swallowed another gulp of his drink, his throat suddenly dry. "Why?"
"Because I want to know if you've lost all sense you had when I taught you Potions last year!" Snape hissed. "Now, I think it would be better if we were to continue this conversation elsewhere. But after yesterday's events, I'm not altogether sure I trust you."
Antony considered this. "Why should you? No-one else does!" he spat, his eyes launching a furious attack on the wood of the table.
"I was your Head of House for six years, Mr Bond, and in that time I saw a talented, intelligent, sadistic, spoilt brat. But you had promise. I want to know if you've wasted that."
"That depends on what you mean by wasted," Antony said, his voice low, every word strictly controlled. "Wasted the chance to live normally, without fear, regret, doubt ... then yes, it's been wasted. If you mean my potential to be more than a petty killer like my cousin, then no."
"Fine. Come with me. People listen in bars." Snape's eyes flitted to Ma'at and Antony's other purchases. "Bring them."
Antony slid from his seat and followed his old professor from the building. As they emerged into the sunlight he reflected on how the two of them must look; there would be a marked contrast between them. On both figures the sun shone only on light-absorbing black, sinister, suspicious in the pale yet strong daylight. The figure of the man walking alongside Antony was stooped and wary, his movements uncertain and furtive. His glittering eyes flicked from side to side before he reached into his pocket and extracted an empty bottle. Antony himself stood taller in natural height, but in despondency was slumped from his usual high, haughty posture. His stance, usually so self-assured, was nervous, flighty. He paused for a moment, uncertain, before accepting one end of the bottle his companion offered him. They remained for a moment, then both were gone, taking the packages with them.
Antony found himself in a small room, bare-walled and sparsely furnished. He eyed Snape, at the same time as he flicked his gaze around the room to quickly take in the details. Desk. Chair either side of it. Window with curtains drawn. Cheap bookcase filled with weighty, elderly tomes which looked severely out of place in the spartan room. Floor covered in green carpet.
"Sit." Snape's command was simple, yet his voice held venom. Antony considered the options for a moment before slipping into his seat. Snape remained standing. Antony was tempted to rise again, but before he could, Snape raised a hand and glared at him. "Why?" was all he said.
Antony stared at the bookshelf, feeling his barriers rise once more and his feelings close off from his face. He shrugged.
"Don't lie to me, Bond," Snape snarled. "It gets you nowhere."
"Why should I be accountable to you?" Antony replied.
"I need to know if you're trustworthy."
"And how do I know if I can trust you?" Antony's words were bitter. He turned his gaze on Snape, his eyes prickling. "I trust nobody. You know that, surely."
"I was actually wondering, Bond," said Snape, slamming his hands onto the desk and looking Antony eye-to-eye, "if it was that you didn't trust anyone with your feelings, or simply that you were the bastard you pretended to be. Can I trust you?"
"That depends on what you want to trust me with."
"A fine Slytherin's answer. Avoiding the question by throwing doubt on it. A tactic, I believe, that you learned from me."
"Perhaps I don't want to tell you. I'm not a fool. This isn't power games anymore. It's life and death!" Antony snapped.
"Good. That's the answer I needed."
Antony stared at Snape for a moment.
"A true Death Eater would not have those reservations," the older man said simply.
"But -"
"I heard what you said, Bond, and know what it means. You are afraid to trust me with your justification. No Death Eater would be, for they would see no harm in it. For some reason almost certainly connected with Lucius Malfoy, you have got yourself into a situation you can't back out of. And you fear you cannot keep your innocence, your self-respect, your values. And you can't. Not without help.
"I will tell you nothing for both your safety and mine, except this. I learned very quickly that the Death Eaters will expect something of you. I am no longer at Hogwarts. Voldemort will want you to take my place as his insider. Use that. You will find allies. You can be helped.
"Good luck."
Antony knew that the discussion was over before Snape handed him the Portkey. He took it, a thousand images of shame and fear swirling before him. He remembered Snape's distrust, the flickering of disapproval when the man realised the truth, the almost pitying words he had used. And he realised then that if he thought there were problems with his own values and beliefs, they were nothing to the prejudices and disgust he was going to face if anyone at Hogwarts realised what his choice had been, even Dumbledore. He was hailed as brilliant by so many, yet he had been unable to make a simple decision that would make a stand for his beliefs. He couldn't face Dumbledore with this news. How could he hope that others would accept this decision when even he could not?
As he saw the land around his home come into being around him, he stared at it with a sense of shame. His choice had failed all he believed in, all he held dear. Tears stung his eyes as he collected his purchases and trudged towards the house.