Stronger Chapter Six

Stronger

By: Provocative Envy

OOO

Author’s Note: I apologize for the shortness of this, since it’s inexcusable that it be a mere 750 words, but there was nothing else to write about this episode in his life. This chapter is the reason why I despise fanfiction. I honestly feel that I have no right to take liberties with situations that I didn’t create and have literally no knowledge of. I made the whole initiation thing as simple and as irrelevant as possible; I really did try my hardest to focus on thought and feeling rather than action. Furthermore, I’d like to explain the absence of Lucius Malfoy’s actual presence: as a writer, his character frightens me. I find it impossible to describe someone who will love their son but sacrifice morality. So I turned the reception of the Mark into a one-on-one-with-Voldemort type of thing. I purposely made this chapter be devoid of dialogue and consist of mostly reflection. I can do nothing but hope I didn’t mess it up too terribly.

OOO

CHAPTER SIX

It was so much slower, so much more excruciating, than I’d ever dreamed.

I’d walked into the decrepit old room, my palms sweaty and my throat dry, confident that with a burst of light and a second of agony the process would be complete. The Dark Lord himself had done nothing to ease my disquiet; in fact, he hadn’t spoken to me at all. He’d merely beckoned me forward, the dim candlelight obscuring his features.

I had been trembling as I lifted up the sleeve of my robe, baring the pale skin of my forearm and willing myself to remain still. I gulped loudly when his cold fingers traced a line down my skin; immediately, he shifted and I felt his eyes bore into my own.

His amusement was almost palpable in the emptiness; shame flooded my cheeks as I realized he was stifling his laughter. I straightened my back and ceased my whimpering, my eyelids snapping shut as I heard him mutter something under his breath.

A moment later there was a faint tingle all over my body, distracting me so that I barely noticed the steady pinpricks of pain shooting across my wrist. This went on for several minutes, the uniformity lulling me into a false sense of security. I began to think that the intimidation factor was a pointless introduction to what would ultimately be an anticlimactic ending; maybe I had imagined the humility he’d heaped upon me in our brief exchange, fraught with tension.

I’d even begun to congratulate myself on my undeserved, unwarranted paranoia: right up until my entire left arm was consumed by a blazing inferno of unprecedented power. If I’d thought that the fire would go away, would be put out as quickly and as unexpectedly as it had come, I was wrong.

I wanted to scream, but couldn’t find my voice; I wanted to clutch at something, anything, just to anchor me to the ground, but had lost command of my own body. I was indistinctly aware of my muscles contracting repeatedly, my legs locked in a petrifying dance of control versus anarchy.

Rebellion was the focus of this massive alteration: it was a revolution, not a responsibility.

Invisible cords, seeped in capriciousness, were binding me to something; it was conscious torture to tie those knots as gently and unhurriedly as possible. My teeth were clenched together so hard that the enamel was being ground to dust; oxygen was suddenly a privilege rather than a right.

I cursed myself for my abject weakness, for my inherent desire to run away from the madly brilliant offer of relevant potency. A jolt of electricity coursed through my thin frame, alighting nerves I’d been unaware I possessed.

After an eternity, everything stopped.

Blithely, I opened my eyes and stared at the area of my arm that would never be my own again.

A steaming black skull, a snake protruding from its mouth, was imprinted on my skin. It seemed so unreal, so wrong that what I’d always assumed would be my destiny was already there.

I’d been unduly sure that I would feel a change in myself afterwards. So sure that once I’d been marked I could start over again.

So sure that it would be the absolute fulfillment of everything I’d ever wanted.

And as I continued my visual perusal of my latest and most permanent physical adornment, I wanted nothing more than to fall to my knees and beg him to take it back.

Fate couldn’t be so cruel, I wanted to shout. Fate wouldn’t play such a joke on anyone. The irony of forsaking my individuality for a grain of power, only to find that I was still the same pathetic coward I’d been before, was too unbearable. I had the gall to be afraid of my own decisions, had the audacity to affront my own maturity and question my own judgment.

Wordlessly, I stalked from the room and fled through the endless doors, collapsing finally in a filthy, abandoned washroom. I gaped up into the grimy, cracked mirror, shocked at what I saw.

I saw someone who bore no resemblance to me: a scared little boy with too-long blond hair and an open expression of unassailable grief etched into his very pores. I saw a selfishly spoiled bully whose pointed face and curling lip were nothing but perfect accessories to the ink-wrought glory of his forearm. I saw someone who would never be good enough for stardom, but would happily settle for contemptuous fame.

I braved a smile into the worn surface of the glass.

It can only get better, I told myself silently, wretchedly. Because it certainly can’t get any worse.

I pretended I wasn’t holding back tears as I trudged back through the house.

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