Veneficium

Saturday, November 29th 1969

Only the pale blue glow of the ceremonial candles illuminated the room, casting a faint light over the two of them. They were gathered in Malfoy Manor, in a room offered up by Abraxas, chosen specifically for the purpose of their ritual. Standing in the middle of the circle of lit candles, which he had carefully carved with runes in preparation for tonight, he was joined by another, kneeling before him. 

It was a particularly cloudy night, and as midnight swiftly approached, the full moon remained concealed behind her mask of clouds, dark grey and heavy, announcing the imminent downpour. Voldemort did not appreciate her shyness, but the ritual would go forth without her witness. The air was thick with anticipation and excitement, part trepidation and part disappointment at the lack of cooperation from the Moon — he made it a point to take a deep inhale, sensing his followers’ emotions so personally, allowing him to effortlessly adapt his mannerism and speech for the most efficient yet memorable impact. 

He was exceptionally proud, and rightfully so, of the rite required for his soldiers to receive their Dark Marks, forever bound to him until the day they were destined to die. Two were to join this new, most elite clan tonight. 

Gathered in a semicircle around them were his seven Knights and the new order of the Death Eaters. Kneeling at his feet was Evan Rosier, twenty-one of age; his father, Clement, was one of his former classmates, and currently boasting a peculiar expression of pride. The young Sylvanus Selwyn was present as well, awaiting his own Mark, standing off at the end, looking gloomier than his counterpart, a scowl etched onto his face. 

If one did not know any better, they could not be faulted for thinking the boy did not wish to partake in the ceremony or be present to begin with. In all honesty, if Voldemort had not strolled through the labyrinths of his mind on multiple occasions, he would not have allowed the boy to come in such close proximity to him purely based on his attitude. Nevertheless, that could be easily changed once he had him fully assimilated within his grasp. Potential was the most important characteristic he was looking for in the newly established Death Eaters, and everything else could be rearranged to suit him best. 

He removed his eyes from the boy to cast one last hopeful glance at the large window to his left. Disappointment was the first thing he felt when he took notice of the raindrops that were trickling down, and he closed his eyes to collect his thoughts. When he opened them, it was to the faint murmurs of the other men who had made the same observation. 

“It would appear the Moon does not wish to indulge us tonight… a pity, indeed...” 

Any life in the room stilled at his words, and despite them having been said in a passing near-whisper, every single one of them had heard him, frozen in their spot, awaiting his next move. The ritual was still foreign to them, having experienced it only thrice before. His very first Death Eater had been Rodolphus Lestrange, followed shortly by Corban Yaxley in an attempt to show his express wish to expand beyond the boundaries of his Knights’ spawns. Boyd Avery had been the third, all of them present as well, off at the other end of the semicircle. 

“We shall begin nonetheless,” he said, and with a swift flick of his wand, the runes activated, glowing with a pearlescent sheen in the dark room. Rosier’s foot flinched, and he lowered his eyes to look down at the young man, his face almost entirely obscured by a sweaty mop of dirty blond waves. “Now, now, Evan, don’t hide down there… are we not to be like family in just mere moments? Are you not happy to be here?” he said with a slight tilt of his head, low enough to signal that his words’s target was only him, but loud enough to be heard by all. 

The effect was immediate; it was as if he had been scorched and Rosier seemed to want to raise his whole body, not just his head to assure him that he wanted this. “I am — My Lord, I swear on my honour that I wish to be nowhere else but in your presence.” 

He allowed a low chuckle at the boy’s ardour. “Do not let your fiancée hear you say that… she might not take it as nicely as me.” 

Evan looked visibly relieved that he hadn’t accidentally messed up his chances and grinned. “I don’t tend to fret over what she thinks of me, my Lord — I’m sure she’ll get over it.” 

“If we end up going through with this successfully, no one not currently present is allowed to know about our connection, Evan,” his smile was instantly replaced by a stern narrowing of his eyes, much like a parent telling their child to stop eating all the candy in the house. “Not your fiancée, not your mother, none of your friends or anyone else. Have I made myself understood?” 

He nodded a little too enthusiastically, agreeing wholeheartedly before confusion made itself evident on his face. “If we end up going through with it, my Lord? I’m not sure I understand…” The others dared to break their previous statue-like stance if only to exchange worried looks; the rain was now pounding so hard against the windows that they were struggling to hear them. 

He did not pay them any mind. 

“You do not expect me to trust you with such a great responsibility so easily now, do you? I am certain you can understand why I have to make sure you are a… proper match first.” 

“Rest assured, my Lord, for I swear it on my honour that there is not one single person more suitable for this privilege than me,” Evan prompted, regaining most of his confidence. “I was born to bring about great change, raised to lead the revolution our weak society has been unknowingly begging for for the past decades.” 

“Your words bring me comfort, but can I be assured of your loyalty, Evan?” 

He did not hesitate one second as he swore his allegiance: “You have my eternal loyalty, my Lord.” 

“Do you pledge your unwavering loyalty to me, for the remainder of your life? Do you swear to serve our noble cause to the very best of your powers?” 

“I, Evan Clement Bertrand Rosier, heir to the Ancient House of Rosier and House of Everard, pledge my unwavering loyalty to your command, my Lord, for the remainder of my life. I swear it on my family’s honour to serve our noble cause to the very best of my powers.” 

“Present me with your left arm,” he ordered, satisfied, holding out his own hand. The blond raised his arm, allowing him to catch it in his grasp, to run a pale thumb over his creamy skin before he touched the tip of his yew wand to his wrist. “Morsmordre.” 

A tendril of magic of the darkest colour poured out of its tip, coiling around Rosier’s forearm until it stopped just enough to change direction and pierce the boy’s skin with one vicious movement. The effect was instant. Evan gave to withdraw his arm as the pain crashed into him, but the spell’s grip kept it firmly in place, in Voldemort’s grip. The tendril was visible under his skin, a black serpent burning his magic permanently until the outlines of a skull with a snake coming out of its mouth branded itself in hot red. 

Evan was trying desperately to muffle his scream of pain, his eyes clouding with tears. Yet he made no more attempts to escape his fate as the ritual continued, the candles burning with black fire, the runes glowing a deep scarlet. The tendril of magic finally withdrew, leaving behind a vivid red tattoo. The Dark Mark. 

With the ritual complete, the candles blew out, the runes deactivated and the room was enveloped by a darkness so piercing one could not see further than a foot from their face. He released the boy’s arm and Evan drew to his feet, clutching his forearm tightly to his chest. 

“Welcome, Evan, to the ranks of my Death Eaters,” he announced. “I hope you can forgive me for not warning you about the pain of the Mark.” 

The young man muttered something in response, but his words were barely discernible through his silent sobs. Nevertheless, he was dismissed to join his father’s side who whispered something in his ear that seemed to straighten him up, trying to hide as he wiped his tears away. 

Voldemort did not bother listening to his followers' mutters, some having cast Lumos to keep the darkness away, as he bent down to light the candles back up, checking to make sure the runes would keep working as intended. He had no doubt that Evan would recover shortly from the shock and grow to worship his Dark Mark as the other three already were. As Regnault had simply put it, the best way to motivate today’s youth into fight, especially his Knights’ spoiled sons, was with a ‘gnarly-sounding name and a wicked tattoo’, as per the current generations’ bizarre preferences in fashion. He could not fault this logic, but there was… something about it that irked him.

Half an hour later, the men had retreated to one of Malfoy Manor’s lounges, the opulence of the space dulled by the boisterous laughter echoing through it. Abraxas’ exorbitantly expensive alcohol flowed freely, and with every passing minute, their self-restraint slipped further. Voldemort remained seated in the armchair nearest the fireplace, his single glass of firewhiskey untouched on the side table.

Despite his tougher demeanor compared to the soft-faced Evan Rosier, Sylvanus Selwyn had complained much louder during his marking. Now, both new recruits sat among their peers, Rosier clutching a glass of brandy as though it were armor and Selwyn sulking into the shadows, his lips pressed into a permanent scowl.

The Death Eaters were still few in number, only five so far — a paltry figure, yet one brimming with ambition. This was the foundation of his vision, however shaky its origins. He had little doubt they would grow into their potential; the Mark bound them to him, a tether of fear and ambition that no one escaped unscathed. No one knew or would ever know about the Knight of Walpurgis, but he planned for the whole world to know about his Death Eaters one day. Soon. 

Unofficially, the latter group remained folded into their ranks, but Voldemort had no intention of branding his old schoolmates like cattle. Why they would allow it on their sons but not them was beyond the limits of his logic. 

From his seat by the grand fireplace, where Silas Selwyn talking his ear off about the glorious future meant for their movement, he allowed his gaze to wander. At the far end of the room, Corban Yaxley was loudly bragging about his latest conquest — "a Muggle-born, but only for practice" — earning snorts of amusement from Boyd Avery, Tiberius Nott ,and Evan Rosier. Their words were devoid of substance and their laughter, hollow and juvenile, was like nails scraping against stone. 

Boys parading as men, Voldemort mused, suppressing the urge to sneer. Their fathers had sent them to him with lofty promises of loyalty, but their heirs’ frivolity only confirmed what Voldemort had suspected for months. This generation was weaker. 

His gaze drifted to the opposite end of the room. Sylvanus Selwyn stood against the wall, whispering with Rodolphus Lestrange, who appeared far more interested in tugging at the edge of a curtain than in his cousin’s words. Lestrange glanced up and caught his eye. Voldemort lingered just long enough to make the boy fidget before shifting his attention elsewhere. He was inclined to reach into the boy’s mind just out of curiosity, wondering if he would be allowed an easy entrance. 

The fireplace crackled beside him, but its warmth felt distant. He let his eyes roam the room again, taking in the scene with detached disdain. His Knights had raised their sons to be leaders, but all he saw were boys playing at men; spoiled, distracted, and infuriatingly complacent. They wore the trappings of power without understanding its cost, more interested in their fleeting indulgences than the future he was carving for them. 

Not that he could complain; after all, children were much easier to manipulate. 

Perhaps it had just as much to do with how different their parents were from their grandparents, for allowing them to lounge about without first ensuring that the family line would continue. It was a drastic change in their society that had been unknowingly adapted from the muggles through the continuous integration of muggleborns at Hogwarts and later on, after they graduated, in the workforce. Voldemort remembered very well how during his time at the school there had been the first and currently only muggleborn Minister for Magic; he had been taken care of without much fuss from anyone, even his supposed allies, but were it to have happened in the England of today, who knew how much more differently it would have been received? 

In the few months since his arrival back in July, it hadn’t been hard to pick up that many things had gone astray in his absence, their society more divided than ever before. From his brief meeting with Dumbledore in August he could tell that the old fart was expecting him to make the first move in the war they both knew was to come. That was fine by him, as he had no intention to wait around. He had waited over thirty years for this moment, from the day he had stepped foot inside Hogwarts. 

The pounding of the rain against the windows had thankfully stopped at some point, giving way to the shy moonlight to peek from behind the storm clouds and through the slightest opening of the heavy curtains, an hour too late for him to welcome it. 

"Do you ever wonder," the elder Silas Selwyn interrupted his thoughts, "how different things might be had we acted sooner?" He was seated to Voldemort’s right, leaning slightly forward, his eyes alight with something bordering on reverence. 

"I wonder many things, Selwyn," he replied smoothly, allowing just the faintest edge to his tone. He did not care for hypotheticals, and Selwyn's eagerness to impress was as grating as the youths' laughter.

Selwyn opened his mouth to continue, but Voldemort’s attention had already drifted elsewhere. A sharp bark of laughter from Yaxley’s corner cut through the room, and Voldemort felt his patience wane further. 

By now, the men were increasingly inebriated, their movements less refined and their voices louder. When Nott Senior sloshed firewhiskey onto his robes without noticing, Voldemort stood abruptly. Abraxas was so far gone he could barely register anything when he told him he must leave, and as such he did not bother informing anyone else, not that it would have mattered anyway — he did not owe them anything, much less excuses. 

Inwardly sighing at the fools he was forced to deal with, he made his silent exit, a subtle Notice-me-not charm allowing him to make his departure in relative peace. 

The manor's halls were quiet, a welcome reprieve from the clamor. Adjusting his robes, he made his way toward the grand staircase. The house was as he remembered it, every portrait familiar, though they no longer watched him with suspicion as they once had. He scornfully recalled having spent his last Yule holiday before graduation here, without a moment’s reprise of solitude. As he descended, he reflected on the state of his growing order. Potential was there — it always was — but potential alone was meaningless without proper guidance, and if he had to shape them all himself, so be it. 

As a top precaution measure, he hadn’t connected his house to the Floo Network, so he was forced to walk past the grand entry foyer he knew housed the main fireplace and one of the only two Floo connections in the Manor, the front doors opening on their own to allow him passage, and he stepped outside, the cool night air greeting him, cutting through the lingering frustration. The manor doors closed behind him with a soft click, and he stepped into the stillness. His senses were suddenly assaulted by the acrid tang of cigarette smoke, and he could not help but dryly cough. 

Sitting on one of the stone steps was Rodolphus Lestrange, who quickly turned around to check who was there, scrambling to get up. “My Lord! I — forgive me. I didn’t think anyone would come here,“ his eyes widened and he began apologising, smushing his lit cigarette into the side of the stone wall, leaving behind a streak of black. A muggle cigarette, no less.

“There is no need for an apology, Rodolphus,” he assured him, dissolving the smoke away wandlessly. It appeared as if he had been out here for quite a while, and he was rather vexed that he had not been aware of his disappearance; he had been keeping quite a close eye on his new Death Eaters for the entirety of the night, but he could give credit where credit was due.

“Thank you, sir.” The younger man vanished any trace of the way he had spent the past half an hour or so, and straightened his robe. “You must excuse me, I just couldn’t stand to be up there any longer.” 

“That is understandable… What was that you were smoking?”

Rodolphus’s face scrunched up and he looked back at the spot he had extinguished his cigarette; even cloaked by the dark night, the slight reddening of his face was painfully apparent. “It’s a… It’s called a cigarette, my Lord. One of my friends got them for me from some mudblood he uh, is seeing.” 

It was not hard to tell he did not wish to admit it, was under no obligation to, in fact, but he had divulged his unseething source regardless. Rodolphus was, somehow, not drunk or even tipsy, even if he had not seen any restraint to drinking as much as he was offered. The decision was deliberate. Measuring up the boy, he couldn't help but wonder why he had made that choice; his mind was unbreachable without conscious effort to do so. Despite having been named his godfather, they did not have a typical godfather-godson relationship by any stretch of the means. He would not have allowed Regnault to pull him into this affair had he requested it now, but his mind must have worked in entirely different ways in his early twenties. It had seemed advantageous back then. “That is quite some… friend you have. May I ask what his name is?” he asked. 

“Ehm… Kingsley Shacklebolt, sir. He — we aren’t particularly close, but we used to be on the Quidditch team together — he’s a few years older. We found out he was smoking these weird muggle things a while ago and he’s been getting them for us.” 

Voldemort had not expected to hear the name of anyone from the Sacred Twenty-Eight, but it was not unheard of, especially if the one in question was not the heir. His knowledge of the Shacklebolts was mostly limited to the current Head of House and his oldest son, but it might be time to expand upon that soon. “Us? I take it then, that these muggle cigarettes are quite popular.” 

Rodolphus looked like he had sucked on an exceptionally sour lemon, and his hand went to massage his neck. "I'd say so. Father banned me from coming close to anyone who smokes them," he chuckled softly. 

"And that has only had the opposite effect of making you more interested, I assume? Don't worry, I won't tell on you." 

"The current arrangement is only temporary, my Lord."

Sometimes, the innocence of curiosity was enough to incite an answer to any of his questions, although Rodolphus’s tongue seemed looser than usual. "Oh, how come?" 

That seemed to have the desired effect of calming him down, although he could tell his reactions were intentionally magnified. It took a skilled player to recognise another. Voldemort had no interest in divulging he was aware of Rodolphus’s plan, as he was far too curious to find out where this would eventually lead. After all, he was the best person for any of his men to practise on, before they applied their skills on anyone else, who would not be as lenient as him. 

“I have a friend who’s been trying to make his own so we don’t have to get anything from the muggles…” the young man said, turning his head away from him, looking out in the distance, where a pride of the Malfoy peacocks were frolicking about. “Bella got him some Alihotsy leaves a few weeks ago, but he doesn’t have much to show for it yet.” 

“You ought to be careful around such things, lest someone think you are up to no good.” 

“Of course, my Lord. Are you leaving, sir?” 

“Yes.” 

The boy nodded slowly, looking back at the burn marks he had left on the pristine stone. Wrapping his cloak tighter around himself, Voldemort looked down at Rodolphus one last time. “Have a good night, Rodolphus.” Stepping down from the main entrance, he heard the boy clearing his throat. 

“My Lord — if I may…” 

Stopping in his step, Voldemort made the choice to, despite his tiredness, stay long enough to hear whatever the boy wanted to tell him so desperately. “Is there something you wish to ask me, Rodolphus?” he said, turning around, managing to hide his frustration adequately enough that an outsider wouldn’t guess their conversation had been broken. 

The boy straightened up, his anxiety plain behind how stoic he tried to present himself; regardless, it was a valiant effort. “My wife would like to be involved with us, too. With the Death Eaters, I mean, my Lord.”

“Your… wife, Rodolphus?” 

The unexpected revelation lingered stiffly in the cold air, perhaps the most shocking thing to happen that night in this part of England, so much so that Voldemort scoffed at the boy in amazement. A woman in his ranks. Much unexpectantly, the younger man upheld his strong demeanour, making it clear that he was very serious about this.  He had to give it to the boy, no one else would have had the guts to imply, let alone ask for such a thing. 

“Yes, my Lord. I can assure you, Bellatrix is very passionate about your cause — there is not a single other person I would recommend to you than her.  I’m sure you’ve heard rumours of her aptitudes, sir, it’s impossible not to have.” He seemed intent on getting this through to him, not one to give up easily. “Let her prove herself to you, my Lord, that’s all I ask of you. She won’t disappoint you, I swear it on my family’s honour.” 

For a few silent moments, the two men had what could only be described as a staring match. Somehow, the boy’s wife had become aware of his little secret group, and if he had indeed kept his promise and not told the witch himself, then that would change matters. If for the better or worse remained to be seen. “You are remarkably daring, Rodolphus Lestrange.” Looking him up and down, Voldemort turned back around. “I shall see what can be done.”