Perfect

Perfect

The Mark heats and burns your skin, filling your robes with warmth and searing your heart with a welcome twinge of pride. You don't look down. You don't push up your sleeve. You know it's there, the black skull and snakes twining through the empty eyes. You love the Mark and everything it stands for, but you don't look now as it is the only flaw on your otherwise faultless specimen and just knowing it is there, but not seeing it, is enough.

The scene is perfect in your drawing room and you don't want to leave it tonight. The woman you love sits and reads, her golden locks shining against the moonlight on one side and the flicker of firelight on the other. Shadows and light playing against her porcelain skin. Her eyes are downcast as she takes in the words on the page. She doesn't know you're watching her and you relish these moments as you breathe in the serenity. Only the telegraph of pain on your arm tarnishes this moment and you know you have to go.

He needs you. The world needs you. And it would be ill advised to keep them both waiting.

"He calls," you say, breaking the spell. "I have to go out tonight."

You startle her out of her book and for a moment you see a frown crease her alabaster brow. She lifts her hand, hiding her forehead for a moment, knowing that you both hate the slight imperfection she reveals when she's upset. It's a fleeting moment, though, as she lowers her palm and her face relaxes into a smile of pride- rows of sentinel-straight china teeth standing between rows of ruby glimmer. Her head bobs in flawless, even tempo. She is not marked on her arm as well. No woman is, save her sister. Someone has to stay behind to care for the ones you men are fighting for.

She knows this routine well and you take pride in knowing there are no regrets as she leaves the room briefly to retrieve the mask. You hate to leave her tonight, on this most special day, but the Dark Lord cares not for holidays, especially ones embraced by the Muggles. The time is now. Wormtail has sold them out, without the struggle you once expected. You are going to collect on borrowed time. Filthy Muggle children, mocking the culture you take such pride in, will walk the streets tonight wearing frilly tutus and masks of their own. You are protected by the ignorance of their lesser parents who will see you and the rest as revelers. You can walk freely tonight and they will not know that your mission will be more "trick" than "treat" for the ones you are going to pay a call to.

She returns, reverently carrying the disguise wrapped in emerald velvet. She unwraps it solemnly as you watch, lifting it to your face, her head still bobbing up and down, her teeth still shining. You take her hands in one hand, lifting the other to cup her chin.

"This shan't take long," you whisper intensely. "Kiss the baby for me."

Her bobbing head pauses as soon as you touch her and your lips meet for a kiss. You drink the perfection of her taste and close your eyes to remember the moment. Just one brush against her crimson lips is enough to sustain you through whatever battle will come tonight.

Neither of you speak as she helps you adjust the mask. She guides your new face so her eyes can meet yours through the slits- stormy grey colliding with cerulean blue. You can hear her breathing grow shallow as she looks you in the eye and you wonder if your eyes are shining as hers are. Anticipation fills you both and you turn away from her. You can't be distracted now. He needs you more than any desire you feel for her at the moment. Carnal pleasures will wait until your return and you can both celebrate the victory over one of the final holdouts to the Light.

Killing is so messy, you think, breathing deeply as she helps you adjust the mask around your nostrils. The mask is second skin, as murder is becoming second nature. It is a necessary evil, no, just necessary if you are to preserve your way of life. More important, though than the preservation of your own well-being, is the desire to safeguard the sanctity of the legacy you will one day pass to the infant sleeping upstairs. "Leave the world better than you found it," you heard your Mudblood brother-in-law tell his daughter once on your only meeting. You had wanted to lift your wand at him, to help him teach the lesson more practically. Your wife wouldn't allow it, though. Family, no matter how soiled, was her only weakness. You cannot disappoint her.

The time runs short and you dare not tarry. Your arm is coursing with fire and the only way to quench it is to appear before Him. Narcissa stares and you know she is going to turn away in just a moment. She doesn't watch you go, fearing she'll never see you again. Before you turn for the door, you reach out with your cooler hand brushing your fingers against her cheek. Unblemished, smooth, beautiful.

Perfect.

As your world is meant to be.