James Potter knelt before the Dark Lord four months after his eighteenth birthday. And it the few moments in which the Dark Lord took his arm, jabbed the wand into the unblemished skin and incanted "Morsmordre!" gave him enough time to remember how he got there.
The Dark Lord had approached him personally, three weeks before the start of his 7th year and had asked James to join his Death Eaters on a raid. Just that one time and that he would never come back afterwards should James want that.
The chaos and bloodshed had been addicting. James hadn't even needed to think about saying yes to go on another. And another… He had dragged Padfoot along somewhere in there, too.
The burning pain brough him back to the moment and he looked up at the Dark Lord, the red eyes meeting his own. James grinned, wild.
He had never cared for the Dark Lord's political goals. Well, once upon a time he had opposed to them, but the blood, the death, the suffering and chaos was all too enticing to let go. All too good to forget for something as irrelevant as ideals.
James Potter had always been attrated to chaos. That was the reason he had noticed Sirius right away, the reason he had an unprecedented amount of detentions. Because it always was worth it. Just like the all mudbloods killed for the Dark Lord. Because he was born for that.
"You may rise," the Dark Lord prompted him.
James rose to his feet and bowed just a tiny bit.
"Thank you, my lord," he said, sincere. That was what it felt like to belong among others delighting in chaos and destruction. And he loved it.
Only years later, when the Aurors escorted him into the courtroom, bound in magic-suppressing chains that he started doubting his decisions.
He had heard that the "good guys" were always supposed to win. Then why was he the one tried? Why was his lord dead, just like the rest of his friends?
But He would come back. And then James would have an opportunity for revenge.