The Outcasts

The two Death Eaters knelt before their Dark Lord, listening while he gave instructions to Nagini in Parseltongue. Justin flinched, as he always did, when he heard the sibilant language slip between his Lord's lips. It reminded him of Potter. Of bloody, fucking, Potter. Anger and hatred shot through him once again, pounding through his veins with every beat of his heart. Oh, Potter would pay. They all would. He had vowed it, and with the freshly cast Dark Mark still throbbing on his arm, he knew he was even closer to his vow than ever.

No one would believe that he, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Ministry bureaucratic flunky to associate Minister Percy Weasley, would ever become a Death Eater. Not mild mannered, painfully polite Justin. Not the one who stopped to help little old ladies across the street, the one who every night for the past seven years had vowed to one day bring down the Gryffindor crown prince. How he had writhed in his seat at the Hufflepuff table as, year after year, Potter was rewarded the extra points needed to steal the House Cup from Slytherin or Ravenclaw or, his final year, from Hufflepuff. The year he had led the house Quidditch team to win the cup for the first time in a half a century, and he was still overshadowed by Harry Bloody Potter.

The woman next to him moved slightly, and he smiled. It was thanks to her he had found his true calling. The two of them had spent night after late night at the Ministry, working on files, eating cold leftovers from the refrigerator in the lounge. They had worked their hearts out and for what? For nothing. One night their talking had led to a run down pub, and there ... there they had met the man who changed everything.

The Dark Lord looked down at them. "You know your roles. Infiltrate them, watch, wait, keep me informed. And even more, if you get the chance, strike. Strike them down where they stand."

It was the standard order for all Death Eaters. It was part of the reason Harry was in hiding now, being protected by the order. An order he was part of ... It gave Justin great satisfaction to know that he would be part of delivering Potter to the Dark Lord, and when he did, the Dark Lord would reward him beyond all imagining.

The Dark Lord would keep his promise, as long as they kept theirs. When the ritual was complete, they were released, and they found themselves walking slowly from the deserted manor into the Dark Countryside. It felt odd to be going home now, and Justin turned to the woman beside him.

"Do you want to go somewhere?" he asked.

She turned and looked at him with cool blue eyes for a moment. "Why don't we go back to my place?"

"Allright." Justin shrugged. "As long as you have gin. I think I need a drink."

He followed her to her flat, watched while she struggled to unlock the door, and waited until she turned on a light before going inside. The place was neat, everything where it should be, nothing out of place.

She tossed the keys down and took off her cloak, turned for his, and hung them up on a convenient set of hooks. A large grey cat strolled out to examine them, then turned away, nose in the air, and walked off with its fluffy tail trailing behind it like a question mark.

"I'll be right back, going to feed the cat," she said. "Make yourself at home."

She disappeared into the back of the flat, and Justin took the time to pour himself a drink before looking around some more. It felt vaguely surreal, that here he was, mere hours after taking the mark, the most important decision of his life, having a drink as if nothing had happened. He sank down onto the large comfortable flowered couch, thumping the pillows briskly, and waited for her to return. It wasn't long before he heard the sound of her heels on the tiles. She came in, poured herself a glass of wine, and sat down next to him.

A long shaky breath escaped her lips. He wished he could see the expression on her face. It was always so hard to read her. "You all right?" he asked.

He could see her lips tighten. "It was better than I expected. Painful a bit, but not terrible." She turned to him then, the corners of her lips twitching in a smile, and the blue eyes peeking from the face covering were maliciously sly. "But just think, we're that much closer."

"I know." He played with the rim of his glass. "It will be worth it to see them suffer, to see them go through what we went through and worse. Tell me. Does it go beyond hate for you sometimes? Sometimes I see Potter at the Ministry, and a haze comes over my eyes, and I feel if I look down I could already see his blood on my hands. That bastard took away half my second year, him and his blasted Parseltongue. I'll see him burn in hell. All the snickering. All the pitying stares. They don't know how it felt ... just lying there... unable to move ... unable to think." He breaks out in a sweat, and his fingers clenched as if they felt Potter's neck within their grasp. "And it was all him."

Her eyes narrow. "When I think about Granger, it's the same way. I can just see her superior attitude, her lording over everyone how wonderful she is ..." Her voice takes on a simpering quality. "And to the cleverest Witch in her generation, we award Hermione Granger this trophy for special services to the school. Special services, my foot. I can't wait to see her face when she realizes I'm one of the ones that brought her down. I want the Dark Lord to torture her, nice and slow. I want to hear her scream."

She turned her eyes to him. "You understand, don't you?" Her hand crept over the Dark Mark gently, and she stroked it as if it were a living thing.

"Of course I do." For some reason, he stretched his fingers out and ran one fingertip along the edge of her mark. It tingled when he touched it, a vague sensation that was slightly painful but not unpleasant. He looked into her eyes. "I understand better than anyone."

"Yes," her voice grew high pitched. "But you really have to mean it ... you have to want them dead."

The sound of his own laugh startled him. It was cold, and reminded him oddly of Parseltongue. "Oh I mean it. Believe me, I've never meant anything more."

He took her hand in his and brought it to his lips. A low hiss escaped her, and he looked up at her thoughtfully. "We're the same, you and I. Two minds, one heart, one cold intent. I've known that a long time now. Haven't you?"

She just shook her head. "Justin ... I ..."

"I love you, Marietta."

Her voice dropped to a low whisper. "You can't just joke about that, Justin."

He brought his hand up to the side of her face, and she flinched. "You mean I have to mean it? Cause I do. I so do. Please. Let me see you."

"I can't... It's ... no one has seen me since then, you know that."

"But none of them love you."

She pulled away and regarded him for what seemed like hours before her shaking hands crept up. She turned her face away from him and slowly pulled off the black wool balaclava. The first thing he saw was her hair. It tumbled in a profusion of waves down her back, and she bent forward and let it hide her flaming cheeks.

"Marietta ..." He cupped her chin in his hand and slowly turned her to face him. His fingers reached up and brushed the hair out of her eyes, revealing her forehead. The white scar was vivid on her skin, the tiny dots spelling out her scarlet letter, her brand. Her eyes were frightened as she looked up at him, but something in his face must have told her it was all right. She let out a shaky breath and smiled at him.

She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

He pressed his lips against hers. They were soft and pliant, and he loved the way her hair felt sliding through his fingers. He pulled away from her and rested his forehead against hers.

"We'll show them. We'll show them both. And never doubt for a minute that I mean it," Justin whispered to her.

She smiled at him, her words a long drawn out sigh of contentment, of finally belonging. "I know you do."