BLAME

Chapter 9: Power and Control

“Well, well, well – finally gracing us with your presence, Potter?” Malfoy’s smarmy voice was less unctuous that usual.

“Fuck off, Malgoût*,” he snapped, pushing past the blond man and heading towards Voldemort.

“I say, the beret is only a temporary –“ Lucius clutched at his hat, mouth hanging open in indignation.

“You got your hair hexed off, you look horrific, deal with it.”

Cackles erupted from the company of Death Eaters. There was nothing they enjoyed more than being entertained by the misfortunes of others.

“I’m not doing it!” he said, planting his feet right in front of Voldemort’s throne (tallest chair, with elaborate silver carving on either side of the arms and emerald velvet seating).

“Elaborate.” Voldemort’s face and tone was neutral, which meant he was at his most dangerous.

“They rescued me from the battlefield, because your lot are useless cowards, and now Dumbledore wants me to spy for him!” He stepped forward and relished the widening of the wizard’s eyes. “I hate that bastard, do you hear me? I detest him with every fibre of my being, you know I do, and I will not agree to anything that involves me having to work with him!”

The silence that followed was eerie, Death Eaters raising their brow in shock and looking sideways at whoever stood next to them, too terrified to dare utter a word.

“Have you agreed to it?”

“Of course I agreed – it was that or handing me over to Moody!” he scoffed. “What was I supposed to do?”

“Then you must play the game, Potter. What choice have you got?” Voldemort smiled. “This is an excellent chance for me to infiltrate the Order, to forfeit such a golden opportunity would be indefensible.”

He looked around at his followers, palms raised upwards, the smallest shrug.

“Of course it would be criminal not to! The Dark Lord’s victory would be practically ensured with you on the inside,” Bellatrix’s eyes gleamed fanatically as she clasped her hands together in excitement.

“An opportunity not to be missed,” said Crabbe.

“A wonderful development,” added Goyle.

“A truly marvellous –“ Malfoy’s obsequious reply was cut short.

“Oh shut up, you’re pathetic.” The sizzling fury still evident in his voice.

“Potter, I advise you to calm yourself.” Voldemort was looking at him with a decidedly irritated expression. “Why don’t you… go work with Black on that Transfiguration project he’s meant to have completed weeks ago, my patience is wearing thin with both of you.”

If Voldemort had been paying attention, he would have noticed the subtle upturn of Potter’s mouth at his suggestion.

“Fine, fine… but I tell you, if I have to spend more than ten minutes at a time in that old wanker’s presence, I quit, do you hear me? And I don’t give a damn what –”

“Yes, yes, now forget about Dumbledore and run along…”

The condescension in Voldemort’s tone was insulting, but Potter was the only Death Eater who regularly threatened to quit the DEs and got away with it - because they all knew he detested the Headmaster with a vengeance, had nowhere else to go, didn’t know the meaning of fear, and was the Dark Lord’s best dueller.

***

“Regulus.”

“Potter.”

James hummed good-naturedly, taking in the gloomy surroundings. Regulus Black was seated bolt upright (as ever) at his mahogany desk, surrounded by a sea of papers, scrolls, archival materials, dried up quills, ancient texts opened and piled haphazardly on top of each other. The only light source was a large silver candle and a paraffin oil lamp. He looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks, black bags under his eyes, translucent skin that hadn’t seen the light of day in even longer.

“You look like shit,” he observed.

Regulus opened his mouth briefly, then closed it.

“When was the last time you ate anything?” James shook his head. “No wonder you’re not making progress on this bloody Transfig project.”

“Oh. That? Er…” Regulus’ eyes wandered to an armchair near the door, containing a modest amount of paperwork. “Well, frankly, it’s a pile of…”

“A pile of utter shite, I know. That equation for measuring the fluidity of inter-corporeal compounds that Lestrange came up with is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. The man can’t tell his arse from his elbow,” James said, folding his arms.  

“You know?” Regulus asked, staring at James intently.

“Of course I know, I’m not an idiot,” James rolled his eyes. “So, what have you actually been doing here all this time?”

Regulus seemed to possess a superhuman ability to avoid giving himself away, the most perfect poker face James had ever seen. He watched it slide into place immaculately. But James hadn’t spent the last five years getting to know his best friend’s brother for nothing. He watched Regulus subtly slide a sheet of parchment covered in ink under the pile of papers.

“Spit it out, Regulus. You know there’s no fooling me. Up to no good, I’ll be bound. Not planning a bit of a coup, are we?”

The split second of widening of Regulus’ pupils was all it took.

“Hot damn, Reggie,” James whistled quietly. “What on earth are you playing at?”

“You sound like an octogenarian New Yorker, Potter. Nobody uses that phrase nowadays.”

James noted Regulus’ hand shook as he picked up the nearest quill, feigning nonchalance. James sent a locking spell towards the door and a double Muffliato Charm for good measure.

“Reggie, going against Voldemort is dangerous as fuck. You can’t do this on your own.”

Regulus didn’t reply and his intense eye contact unnerved him, he could never figure out what it meant.

“Voldy’s an arrogant bastard and not as intelligent as you, but he’s clever. And paranoid. And he notices things. He’s going to want to know what you’ve been playing at all this time, and if you can’t explain it, he’s going to make you.” James shuddered, recalling the two occasions early on in his career as a Death Eater when Voldemort had subjected him to interrogation by Legilimens spell.

“He cannot read my mind.”

“Excuse me, what?”

“You heard me. He cannot read my mind whatsoever, which is a very useful asset,” Regulus said.

“Merlin, fuck!”

“Well, precisely.”

“Reggie, we don’t have much time. If you mean to defeat Voldy once and for all, you’re going to need help.”

“I work alone.” Regulus stared back at him, unmoving.

That more than anything convinced him that Sirius’ little brother wasn’t lying. That, and the fact that as far back as he could recall, Regulus had never actually lied, not once.

“Listen here, you arrogant little prick, you need me. Tell me what you’re planning, Regulus, or I swear to Merlin, my plan to end the Deaters is due to spring into action next week, and that could derail your –”

“What? Potter, under no circumstances are you to try anything rash and useless. You don’t understand what you’re dealing with!” Regulus had risen to his feet in agitation.

“Oh believe me, I know a thing or two about—”

“You have no idea. None!” Regulus snapped. He scribbled something onto a sheet and crossed the room, standing directly in front of James, so close their noses were almost touching.

James made to step back. Regulus handed him a piece of parchment. On it was written a sentence that filled him with dread.

The Dark Lord is immortal, he has made at least one Horcrux

“He told you this?”

“In as many words. He trusts me implicitly,” Regulus said.

“Could there be more than one?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck.”

Three years ago, he had seen something Voldemort hadn’t meant for him to see – the Dark Lord pouring over Magik Most Eville, a book of ancient spells, one that he had snapped shut as soon as James entered the room. But he had used a spell adapted from Priori Incantatem (one of many he had invented) and had found the last page opened – a page outlining the best way to make a Horcrux.

“Fine. Then we find out.”

“How?”

“Ask him.”

“What, Dark Lord, how many Horcruxes have you made, and where did you put them?”

“Yeah, exactly. But first I give him undiluted Veritaserum, then you ask him.”

 Notes

*Old French – Mal foi (Malfoy) is bad faith; mal goût is bad taste