disorder 1979
I had carefully charmed a speaker to play wirelessly, so that I may take it into any room in my mother’s house without having to drag my record player along with. Lately, it perched on a shelf above the tub, bumping out the melody to Disorder. I hummed along and lathered up my hair. The water was still hot, kept that way by a stasis charm. With the cup on the side of the tub, I leaned my head back and rinsed off - satisfaction in the way my skin glowed red and felt hot to the touch. The pitch black of the Mark on my forearm was a perfect contrast.
Out of the tub, I toweled down and slipped into a worn pair of dark jeans, pulling a grey shirt over my head. I could easily pass as a Muggle, which was the goal. Tonight’s assignment was in Manchester, at some Muggle club that had been picked at random.
My studies were done for the week and I had a rare weekend off, devoted to the bidding of the Dark Lord. My potions master still had no idea I was a Death Eater - had no idea what I was up to in my (nearly nonexistent) spare time - and I endeavoured to keep it that way. My dual loyalty was easy enough to work with - potioneering didn’t contradict anything I did for the Dark Lord. Sometimes it even assisted - I had become adept at brewing various disguising potions and Veritaserum. At most, I had to act unsettled when Master Llewellyn read the Prophet out loud in the mornings as I diced, chopped, and milked various ingredients.
I stepped out of the bathroom and frowned. There was a blinking yellow light coming from down the stairs in the direction of the front room. Someone was here, but not someone who would set off my wards. One of my comrades, then. I waved a hand and the record player stopped, house going silent.
‘Muggle music?’ came a voice. ‘Really, Sev?’
I closed my eyes and breathed in before making my way quickly down the stairs and into the kitchen. The intruder sat on the counter, boots swinging. His dark hair was styled impeccably, the sleeves of his red button-down rolled up and showing off his tattoos. He had gotten them to surround his Mark, a mess of Celtic knot work and runes, running together and shifting up and down both his forearms. From what I remembered, they had been protective runes that his father had cast for him when he first joined the Death Eaters.
I glared, moving closer and reaching up as if to fix his collar. Instead, I grabbed Regulus Black by the throat and squeezed tightly. ‘And you’re not going to mention it to anyone.’ It was when Reg stopped struggling that I let go. The berk started laughing, dark eyes sparkling both with tears and with mirth.
‘Why would I mention it? You worried that Lucius or Rosier will say something is unnatural about you liking Muggle music?’ He laughed harder, rubbing at his throat. ‘Oh Sev, you’ve no idea what I keep from those two. The things I could tell our Lord’s golden boys!’
‘Like?’ I drawled, moving away towards the shelf that held my inherited whisky collection. I traced a finger along the labels of the bottles lined up and picked the newest one, not wanting to waste something nice. I waved a hand, summoning two glasses over and poured two fingers of whisky each before turning back to my uninvited guest.
‘Oh the usual. Queers, like Karkaroff. And you, though you seem to keep it better under wraps - what with everyone thinking you’re still mooning over that Mudblood girl.’ I grimaced and handed Regulus his glass. Not even I knew if I were grimacing at the term or the mention of her.
‘I’m not queer, Reg,’ I grit out. ‘I’m just a bit more bent than average.’ Regulus cackled at that and held his glass to toast to that.
‘To being slightly more bent than average!’ he cheered before knocking back the entire thing. I sipped at mine, running a hand along his thigh before squeezing teasingly, jokingly. ‘Aw darling, you know how I feel about you. You’re my favourite.’
We finished our drinks and I sent the glasses to the sink for washing up before passing a small vial to my friend. ‘You ready for this?’
‘Born ready,’ came the response, followed by a gag as the contents of the vial were tossed back. We then spun on our heels and disappeared from the old house.
The club was blaring out into the street and nobody noticed us (now blond and redheaded, respectively) join the throng. We made our way to the bar and ordered drinks, another whisky (bottom shelf, sadly) for me and something fruity for Reg. Our third wasn’t here yet, but when she appeared we would be ready. Mayhem was the order of the night and what better a place than a Muggle disco? The only wizards around were worth terrorising.
Finally, a bright purple-haired woman appeared and clapped us on the shoulders. Her teeth were bared in something that barely resembled a grin.
‘Ready dears?’ Regulus, freckled and ginger, nodded at his cousin and pushed off into the crowd, wand appearing in his hand. I looked at the Black sister before I slid my wand out of my own sleeve.
‘Who’s the target?’ She leaned in close and I barely kept myself from shuddering. After the last time we had been around each other, when she licked my neck and tried to “seduce” me, I wanted nothing to do with her, but the Dark Lord deemed the three of us to work the best together of the youngest Death Eaters.
‘That’s my job, love,’ she crooned into my ear before biting at my earlobe. ‘Set the Mark off, cast a few hexes. Enjoy yourself. Leave the real work to me.’
She disappeared with a giggle and I breathed out. Fucking Bellatrix Black.
I cast a string of lightening-fast hexes upon the throng of Muggles (and a wizard I vaguely recognised from my Hogwarts days) at the counter and spun away, my wand arcing and crashing down upon unwitting victims. My movements were exaggerated, obvious. All the better to catch attention. It was when blood started spouting from noses and boils and burns started sprouting that the screaming started. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Muggles being strung by the ankle from the ceiling.
Miss Black started shrieking something I couldn’t make out and had her wand to the neck of someone I recognised as a Ministry employee. Ah. A blood-traitor, then.
I followed the crowd into the street and raised my wand up, knowing what my associate would be doing next. At the flash of green and renewed shrieks, I made the jagged slashing motion.
‘Morsmordre!’
There’s a crash of bodies against the wall, teeth at necks, nails at bared skin. Panted breaths, curses and praise. It’s when we’re sticky and lying bare on the rug shoulder-to-shoulder that I spoke up.
‘I’ll meet you at the Hog’s Head tomorrow night?’ He hummed and ran a finger up my forearm, rolling onto his side to finger at my Mark. He sighed and pressed his forehead into my chest.
‘I have a family dinner tomorrow, but I’ll try to make it.’ I pressed a kiss to the top of his head and closed my eyes, part of me wishing that I still had family dinners.
It had been two years since I had seen the old man and I knew upon sight that he was up to something, though I wasn’t sure if it was nefarious or boring. It was after a few minutes of waiting that I decided to follow Dumbledore up the stairs, that I decided to listen in on what he was up to.
If it were useful - if it could help….
I knew my actions as of late hadn’t endeared myself to my superiors (though I did rank somewhere above the bumbling idiot Karkaroff). I couldn’t bring myself to kill. Not after the last time. Not after seeing what Bellatrix Black had done. Killing with a wand was one thing. Bringing a knife? No. I didn’t want to see that again.
I pressed close to the door, listening intently. My hands were hidden in my robes, my wand at the ready, just in case. The woman was speaking in a strange voice and once I caught onto her words I knew.
This was it.
A hand clamped down on my shoulder and the burly arms of Aberforth the barkeep yanked me away. His face was red and his beard practically trembled in rage.
‘You little sneak,’ he growled. ‘Listening at doors, the gall!’ He kicked the door open and Dumbledore stood, wand out.
‘I took the wrong way up the stairs!’ I cried, twisting at his hands, against his arms. ‘I was looking for the loo!’ The barkeep scoffed and turned, shoving me down the stairs. I tumbled down, landing in a heap. But now I knew what I needed to save my own hide. And no bruises or possible broken wrist would stop me.
The birth of a boy in July to parents who had thrice defied Him would stop the Dark Lord.
I rushed out of the pub, spinning on my heel and finding myself at the Riddle Manor. I rushed inside, brushing off the house elf, barreling past Malfoy and his flock, barging into the main hall. The Dark Lord sat with Rosier at his side, his dark hair combed back and eyes practically glowing.
‘My lord!’ I gasped. ‘I’ve heard a prophecy that concerns you!’
And there came my end.