Blaise tossed aside the roll of parchment he had been perusing, closing his eyes momentarily to relieve them of strain. There was positively nothing duller than a full day spent toiling behind a desk, or so Blaise concluded. Despite the fact that he had a spacious office all to himself and had not experienced any magical weather problems in at least a year, he wanted out. Reading files, penning reports, and conferring with the members of his department brought little color to the monochrome of heading the Loyalty Sector of the Department of Magical Law.
In taking the long view, Blaise supposed he had succeeded in all the important ways: he had risen quickly to the top of one of the Ministry’s newest divisions, and he was already a father nearly twice over”propagating the noble Zabini genes. Consequently, the Dark Lord had yet to find a source of displeasure with him. By any estimation, the world was his oyster.
Nevertheless, if the Dark Lord were to set aside his recommendation that his followers prove their loyalty through public service, Blaise would turn over his identification badges in a heartbeat”though he did derive some satisfaction from his excessively high level of clearance. Though he wisely kept his sense of individuality in check, Blaise was plagued by a desire to abandon propriety for more interesting pursuits.
Ultimately, he knew that even if he could invent some pretext for going his own way, such a move would be catastrophic to his designs.
Blaise still felt entitled to a day off. In fact, he would take one as soon as he received the message that would give him grounds to drop everything and leave…
As if responding to his thoughts, a hasty rap on the door pulled Blaise’s focus back to the present. “Yes?” he said, not bothering to raise his voice.
Barkley stumbled into the room. “Owl from your wife, sir,” he said breathlessly.
Blaise extended a hand, into which his assistant promptly placed a small note. As Barkley departed, Blaise scanned the memo, smiling in a pleased manner when he read: Mistress going into labor. Moving to St. Mungo’s immediately.
He crumpled, tossed, and quickly forgot the piece of parchment as he stood to leave. He robed himself in his travelling cloak in a leisurely fashion and strolled out of his office. He did not bother to arrange his desk. Barkley would see to the mess, of course.
Blaise toyed with the idea of walking the journey in order to prolong his freedom, but he knew this would be a misstep. Once he reached the Atrium, he extricated his wand from its sheath and Disapparated.
The lobby of St. Mungo’s was crowded with invalids. Blaise noted haughtily that whatever the severity of their injuries, they were each and every one imbeciles. It would not have surprised him to learn that only fifty percent of admits had actually encountered misfortune not of their own making. Blaise could not decide into which category to put pregnant ladies.
Wading through the sea of nonsensical parents and blabbering fools, Blaise forced his way into the lift. A small boy with a putrid boil on the back of his neck stood wedged beside him. Blaise resisted the urge to cover his nose.
With some difficulty, Blaise located his wife’s room and entered, unannounced. Ginny lay in a metal bed with tangled sheets, flanked by Blaise’s choice of fine Healers. She gripped the railings of her bed fiercely, breathing hard.
“Have her propped up, will you?” one Healer muttered over her shoulder.
“Yes, sir,” her young assistant replied, stepping forward. Blaise frowned. This was not one of the members of the staff he had preapproved.
“One moment,” he ejaculated, raising a hand. “Who is this upstart?”
“Reynolds is sick,” the first Healer explained. “I replaced her with an equally qualified candidate.”
“I was not informed,” Blaise said.
“Please, Blaise,” Ginny said. “Is this really necessary?”
“Most definitely,” Blaise said. “Hold your tongue.”
“Mr. Zabini”” the second Healer began, setting aside his wand.
“I will not have common riff raff laying their hands on my wife,” Blaise stated, using the soft, dangerous voice he reserved for confrontations.
“Unfortunately, our team is rather hard pressed at the moment””
“I could care less.”
“Blaise!” Ginny yelled. “Drop it.”
He turned to her, smiling cloyingly at her reddened cheeks. They really did clash horribly with her hair. “Whatever you ask, my darling.”
Ginny let out a frustrated snarl. “Why did you even come at all?” she demanded.
“I have to assure the safe birth of my second child,” Blaise said, extending a lazy hand to stroke her forehead. She gritted her teeth and endured the insult in silence.
“We need to proceed,” the second Healer informed him.
“Fine,” Blaise stated. “But I don’t want this halfwit here handling the baby once it’s born.”
Ginny suddenly released a wail of pain. Blaise stepped away abruptly and nodded to the team. They swooped in without hesitation, positioning her arms and legs and tossing out words of encouragement.
“What are you doing here?” an icy voice demanded.
Blaise swiveled to behold a wrathful Molly Weasley in the door. Her face was as red as her daughter’s, Blaise noted with an internal chuckle.
“Standing witness,” he replied.
“Get out!” Molly commanded. “She won’t get through it if you’re here gloating.”
Blaise supposed she had a point. With a shrug, he said, “As you wish.”
“Good riddance,” Molly muttered, giving Blaise a push in the direction of the door.
Unruffled, Blaise strolled into the hall without so much as a wave. The situation was all together perfect: he had no cause to stay or return to work, which meant he was at liberty to enjoy a drink at the pub of his choice.
His satisfaction, however, was doomed to be short-lived. He had barely taken a seat at the bar in the Leaky Cauldron”between two depressed-looking wizards”when Tom the barkeep handed him a note.
“Owl just arrived for you,” he said, stepping away as quickly as possible. Blaise watched as Tom glanced about. He probably expected Draco to show up; the pair often took a drink together.
Blaise examined the note with an inward sigh. As usual, he did not bother to speak to Tom. He did not even acknowledge his presence. If Draco were here, he thought, he’d lord it over these cretins. “Just get me a shot of something sour,” he requested softly, toying with the note for a moment before opening it.
Before Tom could follow through, Blaise set the parchment aside, having read its contents. “I’ve changed my mind. Give me something rich. Perhaps some burbon?”
Tom obeyed with a nod. Blaise resisted the urge to ask him to pick up the pace. That was Draco’s job. He was the right sort of drunken companion: he would toss out every pompous remark under the sun, amusing Blaise to no end. Despite their differences, they were suited to one another, and Blaise appreciated his company.
Blaise made his way back to the Ministry in due time, a buzz of sadistic satisfaction beginning to tingle in his fingers. He knew he should call for Draco. They were co-workers, after all. He might even have received the same memo… but if not? Blaise didn’t mind. He would enjoy the task at hand on his own.
He made the trip impatiently, climbing stairs and pushing through doors with authority. He prided himself on knowing how to access even the most hidden corners of the Ministry with ease. Of course, he could truthfully claim as much only due to his prized level of clearance.
Blaise eventually found himself face to face with a uniformed guard, sitting attentively outside a door. “Identification?” she asked in a clipped tone.
Blaise flashed his badge quietly and waited for the guard to grant him access to the room beyond.
After a moment, he nodded and passed his wand over the handle of the door. At last! A chance to do something fun, Blaise thought as the door swung open.
He removed his cloak and surveyed the small cell. It was really more of a holding room, in the center of which the captive sat bound to a sturdy chair.
“Good evening, Ron,” said Blaise.
Ron scowled at him.
“We meet again,” Blaise observed softly. “This happens to be your third stint in a Ministry cell in 29 months.”
“Lucky me,” Ron said. He looked around, bored.
“It appears you cannot keep your tendencies in check,” Blaise continued. “Though you’ve walked away before, I doubt you’ll be as lucky again.”
“What did I do this time?” Ron said, allowing his head to loll backwards.
Blasie shook his head and chuckled. “As you well know,” he said, “your disloyal conduct has caught our attention. In fact, members of your own department reported that you were found trespassing on classified information.”
“Shocking.”
“Their report further states that you destroyed valuable documents””
“They were important? Good.”
“”and you proceeded to incapacitate the employee who found you.”
Ron sniggered. “So dueling is illegal now?”
Blaise leaned casually against the wall, folding his arms across his chest. “No,” he said, not raising his voice in the slightest. “But we only pretend to need excuses to lock up idiot blood traitors like you.”
Ron’s hands balled unconsciously into fists. “Should I just confess, then?” he asked, angling his head so he could lock eyes with his questioner.
Blaise contemplated the question for a moment. “Well, I have all day to myself, so I’d prefer it if you’d prolong the fun… for my sake.”
Ron laughed. “I’m sure you have nowhere better to go. Bet even the bartender at the Hog’s Head can’t stand the sight of your pathetic face.”
“I’d much rather pass the time here,” Blaise repeated, his voice completely level. “It’s either that or put up with your sister’s screams.”
This comment caused Ron to sit rigidly upright in his chair. “What?”
“She’s tied to a bed at the hospital, moaning for me to come back,” Blaise lied casually, examining his fingernails.
Ron’s hands began to shake in earnest. “You left her there alone?”
“Why would I stay?” Blaise wondered aloud. Finally, he thought triumphantly. Ron had taken the bait at last. “She doesn’t look her best, even with her hair all wild.”
Ron attempted to throw himself forward, but the magical ropes binding him held him in place. “You’re disgusting,” he spat.
“I’m sure,” Blaise responded. He was just warming up to the task of torturing his brother-in-law. “Unfortunately for you, I get to do what I want with my property. It’s one of the perks of being a Death Eater.”
Ron bit his tongue to keep himself from hurling any more insults at Blaise. They both knew there was no real purpose to their meeting, and Blaise would evidently write up whatever he saw fit. Their confrontation was entirely for Blaise’s enjoyment.
Blaise waited for a reply. When none came, he shook his head. “Disappointing,” he said. “It’s as if you don’t want to hear what I have to say.”
Ron chuckled quietly. He had made up his mind.
“Too bad,” Blaise murmured. “I guess I’ll hold on to my news of Granger, your old Mudblood pal.”
“What?” started Ron.
Blaise shrugged.
Ron struggled with himself for a moment. “Tell me,” he said at last, his voice resigned.
Blaise suppressed a smile. “Well, I have a few acquaintances in Exile Management”you know, the Mudblood Control Department… Milicent, for one…”
“Get to the point,” Ron burst out.
“So impatient,” Blaise noted. “Well, at any rate, Granger seems keen on breaking her agreement of peaceful silence. She has taken up a sort of letter-writing campaign, sending us a deluge of pleas. It’s pointless, of course, because we have no intention of ‘lending her a wand,’ even if she swears she only needs to cast one spell.”
“Which spell?” Ron demanded.
Blaise stared at him for a moment. Though the detainee remained bound and faced an ugly set of prospective futures, none of this seemed to bother him anymore. Ron’s face was transfigured into a mask of childish hope. Only his eyes betrayed his desperation, his vulnerability.
“Something about reversing a Memory Charm,” Blaise said, shrugging his shoulders as he took a step away from the wall. “But naturally, Millicent”who has other cases to attend to”has no intention of playing along. As if her real scheme could not be more obvious! And to think all the professors thought she was so clever…”
“You prancing idiot,” Ron seethed. “She just wants to help her parents!”
Blaise sighed delicately. “It never ceases to amaze me that you blood traitors think we harbor any sense of obligation towards Undesirables. After all, her parents are Muggles… nobody… just simple, inferior creatures. And they are doubtless happier not knowing they ever had a daughter…”
Ron made a move to stand once more, but his efforts were as futile as ever. The tumult of rage ran down his spine in a tremor as he sat, incapacitated, in the presence of the man he hated most in the world.
“You know,” Blaise went on after a moment, “you might learn some self-control in prison. I’ll wager you do. And on top of that, your little brats will happily grow up without such a pathetic excuse for a father. Perhaps they’ll aspire to a much nobler life. Don’t you worry”I’ll take them under my wing, once they’re out of school. By then, they’ll be desperate for a parental figure. After all, their mother was a mere bed-warmer, and their father was a worthless wreck””
“I’LL KILL YOU!” Ron roared, his features twisted in agony. Every tendon in his body visibly strained against his bindings as he writhed like a madman.
“We both know I’m right,” Blaise said, raising his voice for once”so he could still be heard over the captive’s yells. “The only purpose your wife serves is to appease your appetite!”
“GET OUT! I’LL KILL YOU!” Ron raged. “I’LL KILL YOU!”
“I suppose I’m done here,” Blaise observed in his usual velvet tone.
“GET OUT!” Ron yelled, throwing his head back violently.
“I’m going,” Blaise confirmed. He raised his hand in farewell. “I’ll be in touch, brother. Shall I tell Ginny you say hello?”
Ron merely howled in fury. Blaise turned away with a soft sigh and donned his cloak. “Cheers.”
Once in the stairwell, Blaise paused. Leaning against the wall, he felt a spasm seize his body. He gripped his sides and laughed until his eyes grew damp.
When at last the feeling passed, he checked his ornate pocket watch. He had spent enough time here; that was for certain. He would put forward Ron’s name for prosecution in the morning. No need to write a full report. In the meantime, Blaise was famished.
It occurred to him that his time would be better managed if he stopped by St. Mungo’s on the way home. After all, he had chosen a name for his second child after much deliberation, but there was no guarantee that Ginny would not make any official statements disregarding his decision. She did seem to relish in every opportunity to frustrate him. Despite her stubborn ways, Blaise enjoyed keeping her. She was radiant on the average day, and he derived an intense pleasure from having her on his arm at Ministry functions. She was exactly the treasure he required. Even her resistance to his occasional attempts to torment her gave him great happiness.
She was a fiery Veela of a woman, and, in his own way, Blaise loved her. Indeed, he coveted her. She was his most valuable possession.
Squaring his shoulders, Blaise set a course for the hospital, repeating mentally the name he had prepared for his son: Claudius. Claudius Zabini. It was a regal name.
Blaise removed his wand from his cloak with satisfaction. Today had been an excellent day.
* * * * *
The long corridor stretching between the entrance hall and the receiving room was far narrower than Blaise remembered. The paintings that lined the walls regarded him apprehensively, observing his incessant pacing up and down the length of the room. Only his mother’s portrait at the end of the line”across from his father’s”watched him without a trace of disdain: her expression was nearer to polite disinterest. Blaise let his eye wander over her face as he paced from one end”the entrance hall with its grand staircase and macabre chandeliers”to the other”the room decorated classically with silk cushions and marble fireplaces.
The corridor probably seemed smaller simply because Blaise had spent little time within the confines of his own home. A small boy strutting out to attend Hogwarts at age eleven perceives depth and size differently than an eighteen-year-old a few months out of school. In between his initial exit and recent return, Blaise had rarely entered the Zabini Manor. His mother had never exhibited a strong attachment to the place; after all, she had lived in six other palatial homes during her married life. Blaise was fairly sure this was the grandest of all. Why else wouldn’t she have moved on to the next marriage?
No answer came to Blaise. He didn’t consider his parents sentimental, and consequently, neither was he. Emotional attachment was out of the question, and therefore, not the answer. Blaise pushed such trivial thoughts out of his head, his feet coming to a stop at the doorway leading to the grandiose entrance hall. He was as far away from his parents’ portraits as the room would allow.
Blaise knew the real reason the room felt too small. It was as plain as day: his last hours as a free agent were about to end.
As soon as the thought crosses his mind, Blaise moved to conceal it. A grosser misstep could not be imagined on the brink of a meeting with a room full of Death Eaters. It would not do to present himself to the Dark Lord mulling over such traitorous ideas. At the same time, he couldn’t help it. His mother’s free spirit cried out against the move he was soon to make. Blaise disliked inhibitions”and that meant loyalties to a group of any kind. He had always been detached, removing himself slightly from his comrades with ease. He never sought close companionship unless it suited his mood or meant an advantageous step. Like his mother, he trusted only himself and had his own agenda. Other people”Death Eaters included”merely fit into the framework of his life when he placed them there.
Blaise released a frustrated sigh and threw open the door to the front hall. By comparison, this room felt much too large. Its high ceilings and endless windows made him feel shrunken in size. There was a reason for this, too. His ancestral home was enormous… and completely empty.
Just the Lord of the Manor and a few scuttling house elves, he noted. How dull.
Blaise wondered at this observation. He never sought companions. He did not remotely miss his departed parents, who had never invested much attention in his pursuits. Nonetheless, he felt at a loss in such a vast network of abandoned corridors and empty corners. Perhaps he felt bored with no one to manipulate; perhaps he wanted someone around as a means to achieve his ambitious goal of irrefutable influence.
Either way, Blaise felt unsatisfied with his present condition. That he would soon receive summons to swear his loyalty nagged at him. In the current climate, however, Blaise had no choice. To get anywhere, he needed the mobility and freedom of a Death Eater. He’d been absent for most of the battle nearly two months past; the professors had shuttled him out of the castle. He had managed, however, to sneak back in near the end. He applauded himself for making such a strategic move on such short notice.
It was tiring, throwing his hat in with the Dark Lord. Of course, Blaise felt no sympathy for the Order. His beliefs were generally well aligned with those of the average Death Eater. It was the bondage, not the ideology, that he found so utterly distasteful.
Just as he turned to go upstairs and find a new hallway in which to wander, one of his house elves entered the room through a side door, bearing small, silver platter. On its surface was an envelope. Blaise accepted the letter from his servant at a leisurely pace, savoring his remaining moments of loyalty only to himself.
He was summoned, as expected. He ordered the elf to see to the owl that had delivered the note and went to find a cloak.
The old Riddle house was in a rather degraded condition, Blaise observed as he made his way in. The building was a crumbling monument, subsiding slowly into its own foundation. An echo of grandeur from another era permeated the walls, but the effect was more depressing than impressive. Blaise wondered why the Dark Lord would choose a decrepit old house for the site of his gathering. He supposed it didn’t matter. The Death Eaters, their friends, and followers milled about, smirks on their faces as they regarded one another.
Blaise scanned the room with interest. The guests glided about slowly, speaking in soft tones to one another. Tracing the pattern of movement around the room with his eyes almost led Blaise to believe that they were adhering to some unspoken choreography. At the end of each round, a given Death Eater would pause silently to examine the large, black door at the far end, which stood ominously closed. Blaise guessed that the Dark Lord and his ceremony waited on the other side.
Blaise made curt small talk with the other guests, but he held his ground. Even the smallest rebellion against the current gave him some measure of symbolic freedom. He let the others come to him, and he listened quietly as they gloated and elaborated. When he grew tired of a conversation, he took to staring at the converser’s shoulder. As he began to tune out Millicent Bulstrode’s voice in a similar fashion, he noticed Draco and Lucius sitting tensely in the corner farthest from the black door. No one spoke to them. Blaise wondered how long it would take Draco to realize how troublesome his problems were.
Before Blaise could lock eyes with his old schoolmate, the room grew silent as a tomb. Blaise heard only the creak of hinges long left unused as the black door opened. Swiftly and thoroughly, Blaise cleared his mind. As the other guests began to glide forward, making no more noise than a host of Dementors, he squared his shoulders and followed.
Once he had crossed the threshold, he felt instantly transported to the Slytherin Common Room: the decorations, the colors, and the furnishings all suggested Salazar’s majestic style. It would have been a spacious room if not for the cumbersome table which ran from one end to the other. The overall effect was one of distinct familiarity; in fact, Blaise could have sworn he had seen that very table before.
The Dark Lord sat regally in a tall, peaked chair clearly intended to evoke a throne. He watched silently as the group settled around the table, seemingly satisfied with their attendance. Blaise felt the weight of his gaze as his eyes rested on him, probing, every so often.
Nobody gestured for Blaise to sit in a specific seat, but he knew better than to take the one nearest him. Once again, the guests engaged in an unspoken but nevertheless predestined plan, taking seats that fit their station without further ado. The Dark Lord loved hierarchy, Blaise knew. The seasoned members already knew precisely which seat to take. The new ones were meant to guess and realize their insignificance.
Indecision in the faces of some of the guests instantly broadcasted their status. Blaise knew better than to stand and wait until only a few places remained; he liked this sort of game. He strode past those lingering near the door and seated himself near the far end of the table. He had to gamble either way, but ultimately his choices were few: he had neither Death Eater status nor fear of their power, so he sat himself as close to the elite as he thought prudent. As he arranged his robes in his lap, he felt once more the gaze of the Dark Lord and wondered if the extreme end”suggesting unworthiness in the presence of authority”would have been a smarter move. No, he decided. One must always give others reason to believe in one’s worth. Cringing servility will not win any favors.
At the moment of his choosing, the Dark Lord rose. He regarded the group, many of which kept their eyes fixed on the table. Blaise chose to look attentive and turned his face toward the Dark Lord, who smiled. “Friends,” he began silkily, “Welcome to the new era. Our new era.”
There were some noises of approval from around the table.
The Dark Lord went on, “I have gathered you here this night to reward you. We have achieved full control, and in a decent interval, no less.” He paused. “The Dark Lord is pleased.”
Bellatrix, who sat at his right hand, looked ready to burst with ecstasy.
“I reward those who show loyalty,” the Dark Lord continued. “For this reason”and since we are on the eve of my reign”I would like each of you to stand when called and make an oath of fealty. In this manner, we will set in stone the future of our noble society. I will reward each of you accordingly. Those of you swearing loyalty for the first time…” He smiled. “Some of you will receive Dark Marks afterwards.” He turned to Bellatrix and inclined his head, saying, “You may begin.”
Bellatrix rose proudly to her feet, beaming with satisfaction. “My Lord,” she said with reverence, “I have served you faithfully and ceaselessly. I swear to do so until the end.”
“You have proven loyal,” the Dark Lord concurred, “despite your past blunders. And let us not forget that it was you who correctly judged your traitorous sister in the moment of our victory.”
Bellatrix bowed her head and extended her branded wrist in a gesture of respect.
“Consequently,” he continued, “I shall reward you. What do you require of your master?”
“Only that I may serve you as best it pleases you,” she said immediately.
The Dark Lord looked mildly amused. “A selfless wish… I shall devise a use for you, as you have asked…”
“Thank you, my Lord,” Bellatrix said exhultantly, sitting once more.
Turning his gaze to the next person, the Dark Lord said, “Rise.”
The ceremony proceeded. It seemed to Blaise that his new master could grant anything. He graciously promised positions of influence, vaults of gold, and acres of land without the slightest hesitation. No request made him frown and decline, but as he progressed down the table, the requests grew noticeably less ostentatious, more humble; the members of the group knew their positions well, and they asked accordingly.
When at last all of the guests nearest the Dark Lord”many of which were Death Eaters”had had a turn, Lord Voldemort turned to Blaise, who sat at the edge of the inductees. “And now, let us hear some new vows,” he said softly. “Rise.”
Blaised obeyed, standing unflinchingly. His mind acutely focused, he spoke, “I have long anticipated this moment, and I join your honored ranks with pride. I swear loyalty to the Dark Lord, and should I break my vow, I will gladly forfeit my life.”
The Dark Lord adopted a curious expression. “Very interesting,” he commented, regarding Blaise’s well-composed face. After a moment, he announced, “I accept your pledge. For your commitment, you may proceed with your request.”
Blaise had not truly considered for what to ask, despite the copious amount of time given him to decide. Surprisingly, he had an answer ready, though he had not expected or realized it. “I would like to have”for my own”Ginevra Weasley.”
The Dark Lord’s surprise matched his own. “A fascinating choice,” he noted. “A blood traitor? Nonetheless, I grant your odd wish. And what an idea you have just given me!” He lapsed into silence, eyes temporarily unfocused.
Blaise bowed his head as Bellatrix had done.
“You shall receive the Dark Mark, Blaise Zabini,” concluded the Dark Lord at last. “I look forward to your service.”
Blaise resumed his seat, allowing himself a smug feeling. Nott, his young classmate, stared at him from across the table with a mixture of jealousy and admiration.
As the ceremony continued, Blaise reflected on his sudden decision. He had money and property enough, to be sure, and he did not particularly desire a strenuous Ministry position. True, he had always felt an infuriating attraction towards the girl, but she was a blood traitor and would never have submitted to his desires. It gave him a distinct measure of satisfaction to possess her. Though she was ignorant as of yet, she was undeniably his, and he was at liberty to do what he would like with her.
Blaise recalled his boredom of that afternoon. Finally, a solution! Taking Ginny for his own would instantly eliminate any ennui or irritation.
Blaise resumed his focus as the Dark Lord neared the table’s end. Only Lucius and Draco remained. Malfoy Senior rose slowly and faced his master. “I have sworn loyalty to the Dark Lord in the past,” he said clearly. “My allegiance has not changed. I know you are displeased with my family, but I wish to beg your forgiveness.”
The Dark Lord looked pensive. “That is a weighty request,” he stated. “Your family has proven disloyal time and again. Your wife has already been justly punished, but you remain to bear the burden of the rest.” His eyes flitted to Draco. “That said, you were once my closest counselor, Lucius. Though you have lost your good repute, I will repay your history of service by pardoning your son.”
Lucius did not object to the Dark Lord’s assessment of his fidelity. He seemed grimly pleased as he regained his seat.
Draco rose, the last guest at the table. “My Lord,” he said, “though I have only been a Death Eater for a short time, my loyalty is unwavering as any of your other followers’. I swear to renew that pledge and prove worthy of your trust.”
“Well phrased,” the Dark Lord pronounced. “I accept your gesture. Since your father has just secured for you a new lease on life, you may ask for a reward.”
Draco paused. “I would like to ask that honor be restored to he who still wears the name of Malfoy with pride and respect so that he can better serve you.”
“You forsake your family?”
“They have forsaken you. I will not.”
The Dark Lord paused. “So you choose loyalty to me over your disgraced family? So be it. Request granted.”
Blaise stared at his former classmate. It was a clever move, abandoning Lucius. A respect for Draco’s strategic reckoning lodged itself in Blaise’s mind. He has enjoyed cavorting with Draco in the past, but only now did Blaise acknowledge how much they had in common. Neither liked authority but both played the game. They were both self-serving, ambitious assholes.
Blaise suppressed a smile. Perhaps he wasn’t chaining himself to the Death Eaters. A mere affiliation, he decided… Only time would tell. He smiled to himself as he stood be the first to receive the Dark Mark.
The Dunnest Smoke of Hell by Scarlet Crystal
Chapter Notes: "For when my outward action doth demonstrate The native act and figure of my heart
In compliment extern, 'tis not long after
But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve
For daws to peck at: I am not what I am. "
-- Othello