Cyanide

Two weeks after his meeting both unexpected and unwanted, Percy angrily paced the floor of his office. A test. A test! Percy did not want to be tested on his worthiness as a Death Eater, though whether he feared passing or failing was anyone's guess. Actually, it was not anyone's guess but his own, but telling himself that it could, conceivably, be someone else's guess made him feel less alone. Never had he lied so often in his life. Today he had told his parents that he was working late and might possibly meet a friend from Hogwarts after work. He hoped that his hand on the family clock would not give him away.

The day after Professor Dumbledore had rather forcefully suggested a career change to Percy, he had obediently sought out a former classmate in a run-down pub that backed Knockturn Alley.

Marcus Flint had not been a classmate for much of Percy's Hogwarts career. Flint had been a year above Percy, and in another house to boot, but he had failed to graduate and had been thrown into Percy's Gryffindor-Slytherin double Potions lessons during his seventh year. This had been part of Percy's reason for choosing Flint as his entrance point to the world he had promised all his life to fight. He wanted a contact that had not had much of an opportunity to know him personally. Stupid would help, as well. Despite the fact that Dumbledore had hand-picked him for this job, Percy was sure that his position as spy would be obvious. Saying that a Weasley was a Death Eater was likely to attract about as much serious consideration as saying that one wanted to referee the next Thunderer-Warrior game.

Quidditch. Flint had been the Slytherin Quidditch captain for several years and had never, so far as Percy could tell, done anything to stay within the rules or promote good sportsmanship. One of Percy's roommates, Oliver Wood, had been the Gryffindor captain and on nights after the two teams had had a match or an informal run-in, Oliver had yelled and stomped and sworn for hours on end before calming down enough to fall asleep.

"Weasley. You actually showed," Flint chuckled meanly. "I don't know why I'm surprised. You never were like the others."

"The others?"

"The Gryffindors. Your brothers. Their friends. The noble ones, the ones who went around claiming that all they wanted was world peace and happiness for all and a Gryffindor championship."

"I wanted the Gryffindor championships. They made me look good. I was prefect. Head Boy."

"You were, but you're nothing now."

"Can you do something to change that?"

"I might be able to."

"Mights don't go very far with me."

"Well, you aren't in charge. For all I know, you're doing this on a dare. For all I know, you wouldn't last a day. Initiations into the places we're discussing aren't easy. And once you're in, you're in forever, or you die."

Percy did his best to mumble under his breath and sound surly, which was not a habit for him.

"What was that?" asked Flint sharply, or as sharply as he could when his less-than-impressive intellect was further dulled by his consumption of large amounts of the pub's finest wares.

"I was saying your initiation would be easy compared to living with Oliver Wood for seven God damned years." Flint's eyes brightened, and Percy mentally patted himself on the back. It made sense that Flint felt about Oliver as Oliver felt about Flint. This would be a good way to ingratiate himself, and if Oliver knew his reasons he surely would not mind. Oliver was fairly easy-going about all things not called Quidditch.

"My time at Hogwarts was wasted, you know?" Percy continued, taking a drink of the pub's vile specialty himself. "What did it get me? Nothing but a boring, badly paying job that's never going to get me any respect. And the worst things about Hogwarts were my damn roommates. Ol-- Wood was always whining about Quidditch and how they just had to win, but then he'd go out there and not really try. No bewitched bludgers. No getting decent brooms by any means necessary. He never would have thought of something like that stunt you pulled, pretending to be dementors to upset that little crybaby Harry Potter."

"You have a brother who's almost joined at the hip to Harry Potter."

"Yes. And I love my brother." He couldn't very well say that he didn't. He was a Weasley. He had red hair and freckles, and he had a plethora of siblings whom he both enjoyed and enjoyed annoying. Right? Certainly he was different from his siblings, but could he be so drastically different that even Flint, who wouldn't be able to pour water out of a boot with instructions on the heel, would believe that he hated them? "I love all my brothers, but I don't think the way they do. I didn't spend my time in school playing tricks and games. I studied. I planned. I'm the smart one in the family, and I know which side is the winning side."

Flint smirked unpleasantly. "You know, I think you do."

"What does that do for me?"

"Two Fridays from now, be in your office in the evening. We'll pick you up for your test. You do well, we'll think about sponsoring you. You got it?"

"Got it."

He had never wanted to "get" anything less.

Nonetheless, here he was, two weeks later, pacing back and forth in his office, awaiting the arrival of Marcus Flint.

Suddenly, Percy stopped in mid-pace and lunged for his wand as three hooded figures, the stuff his childhood nightmares had been made of, appeared in his office.

"I wouldn't use your wand, Weasley. It wouldn't be a good way to get yourself invited to join us," said the figure that was unmistakably Flint.

"Care to introduce me to your friends?"

"Oh, nice cover, Weasley. Asking for an introduction to cover up that he's scared of us. No, I wouldn't care to introduce you. Not before we decide we can trust you. A cold-hearted bastard you may be, but you've never shown any interest in anything but being a Ministry type before."

"You must know some other Ministry types if you were able to get in here."

"That we do. But it's not as if we weren't invited. We'll even leave right now, if you've changed your mind."

"I haven't."

"Then follow us."

I can't believe I'm doing this. I can't believe I'm doing this. I can't believe I'm doing this. I can't believe I'm doing this. I can't believe I'm doing this. I can't believe I'm doing this. "Lead the way. I'm ready." I'm terrified. I can't believe I'm doing this. I can't believe I'm doing this. I can't believe I'm doing this. His heart beat in time with his repeated thought. I can't believe I'm doing this.

They walked down the hallway, as calmly as they pleased, as if a group of wizards wearing the classic Death Eater regalia were a common sight inside the Ministry office. Percy sincerely hoped that they were not.

Flint, beneath his robes and hood, pointed to a doorway as they passed. "Know him?"

"Gilbert Wimple? Yes, I've met him. Committee on Experimental Charms."

"Good. Ever been to his house?"

"Once. Years ago, before I started Hogwarts. I went with my father for some reason."

"Even better. You'll know where we're going tonight."

"Why? What does Gilbert Wimple have to do with you?"

Flint just laughed and produced some black cloth from beneath his cloak.

"Put this on."

Fighting not to look nervous, Percy saw that the cloth was in the shape of a hood, a Death Eater's hood. Warily, he pulled it over his head, wrapping its mask around to cover his face. He was dumbly startled to discover that he felt no different inside the costume of a Death Eater than he did in the robes of a Ministry worker.

"We're going to go outside and Apparate to Wimple's house. He and his wife are both at home, or they were less than an hour ago. Just do what we do."

"No problem."

I can't believe I'm doing this.

Then, a more pressing thought occurred to Percy.

Don't make me kill someone. Don't make me kill someone. Don't make me kill someone. Don't make me kill someone.

He did not want to kill anyone. He did not even want to hurt anyone. Least of all did he want to hurt a friendly co-worker of Father's, someone who had invited Percy into his kitchen to eat cookies when Percy had been a young child.

Don't make me kill someone. Don't make me kill someone. Don't make me kill someone.

Killing was unethical. It was immoral. It was against everything he had ever been taught. It was against everything he believed. It was what he was fighting to stop! Surely Dumbledore had not intended him to . . . but he was supposed to convince himself that he wanted to be a Death Eater, and he could not do that by inventing elaborate plots by which he could ask the Hogwarts Headmaster what to do.

All he could do, he decided, was beg an unknown force to listen to him.

Don't make me kill someone. Don't make me kill someone. Don't make me kill someone.

They Apparated to the middle of the street upon which stood their target. Percy barely had time to wonder that someone as thick as Flint could master the ability to Apparate before one of his companions had drawn his wand and blown the front door off its hinges.

I can't believe I'm doing this. Don't make me kill someone. I can't believe I'm doing this. Don't make me kill someone. I can't believe I'm doing this. Don't make me kill someone. I can't believe I'm doing this. Don't make me kill someone. I can't believe I'm doing this. Don't make me kill--

Flint grabbed Percy's arm roughly, and they all began to run forward through the open door. Percy braced himself, sure that he would be repelled by a protective spell, but nothing happened. Had the Death Eaters removed the spell? Were the Wimples so naive or trusting that they did not use one?

Percy recognized Gilbert Wimple's voice, shouting in fear, yelling for his wife to run. Rounding a corner, he could see that his wand had already been snapped, and that he was being held by two hooded figures, his arms twisted, his head banged against the wall.

Was this everything? Intimidation and nothing else? Percy had seen Flint do worse to Gryffindor first years without the slightest provocation.

A hand was raised to point first at Percy and then up a short flight of stairs. Understanding, he loped up them two at a time. He was to do to the wife as his companions were doing to the husband. It would not be difficult magically; Mrs. Wimple was nearly a squib, although she was wonderful, warm, and caring. In all other ways, though, this task promised to be the most difficult he had ever completed.

"Stay back!" she cried, her back against a bedroom wall and her wand pointing at Percy.

"Expeliarmus," he whispered, not wanting his voice to be recognized and inwardly berating himself for not altering before he had left the Ministry. The wand flew easily into his hand and he snapped it, tossing it across the room, before reaching out one long arm and grabbing Mrs. Wimple by the throat.

She was shaking violently, and he wished that he could tell her that he had no intention of hurting her. He wanted nothing more than to comfort her as he would have Ginny; Mrs. Wimple was no taller than Percy's younger sister. He was certain, though, that he was being observed, and so he gagged her, bound her, and threw her into the wall, wincing sympathetically and disgustedly as flesh met brick, and hoping that she would not bruise too badly.

He heard footsteps behind him and saw that it was Flint. Flint mimed knocking someone unconscious, and Percy stepped forward, pulled his victim off the floor, and clapped her on the head with the heel of his hand, trying to make it look brutal and not as if he had aimed for the spot behind the ear that was likely to be the quickest and least painful point.

"Now go through the closet, grab his briefcase, and find the file on new charms," Flint commanded in a low voice.

Percy did so, and they summarily left the house, conjured the Dark Mark, and returned to his office.

Safely inside, Flint removed his hood and Percy did the same. "You did well," said Flint simply.

"Why didn't we kill them? I thought Death Eaters never left their victims alive."

"Eager, are you? First of all, Weasley, those weren't victims. If they were, we wouldn't have left them alive. Second, you haven't been initiated. You could turn around and tell the world what you saw me do tonight-- but you can't say you saw me kill someone. You're a big risk, but you'll be a big prize if you work out. You might even be my ticket into the Inner Circle. But that's where you're going right now. They'll check you out."

Percy's head was spinning, and Flint laughed his usual, mean laugh. "Catch," said Flint, and he threw Percy what looked like a bludger but what was, as he realized as soon as he caught it, a portkey.

The bludger was wrenched from Percy's hands even before he was able to orient himself. The night was dark, darker than any night had a right to be, and although Percy was somehow sure that he was in the middle of a circle of Death Eaters, he could see none of them. Even if he had been able to see their figures, their faces were surely masked and their heads hooded. They, though, could most certainly see him. His pale skin was illuminated by a charm of some sort that had been cast even as the portkey was taken from him. Virtually nothing could have made his position more vulnerable.

"CRUCIO!"

Well, there was that.

The pain was all-encompassing at first, and then it faded to a haze. Eventually, Percy became aware that the pain was now only a haze because the curse had been removed. It could not have been left on him for more than half a minute; he had not even fallen to his knees.

"Did that hurt?" echoed a voice obviously disguised by several of the charms Percy had been contemplating using on himself earlier that evening.

"Yes," Percy answered flatly, deciding that since the Death Eaters already knew the answer to the question, which really had been the stupid question to end all stupid questions-- then Percy reminded himself that there were no stupid questions, only stupid people-- they wanted to feel out his personality.

"The pain will be much worse if you ever displease us."

"I understand."

"Do you wish to join our junior circle?"

"I do."

"Do you give your word to follow the directions given to you by your sponsor and the senior members of the junior circle?"

"I give my word."

"Do you renounce your loyalty to the Ministry of Magic?"

"I renounce it."

"And to Albus Dumbledore?"

"I renounce it."

"And to the causes that further the interests of Muggles?"

"I renounce it."

"And Mudbloods?"

"I renounce it."

"And to all causes which may have objectives which differ from our own?"

"I renounce it."

"Do you swear that your blood is pure?"

"I swear it."

"Why are you superior to Mudbloods and Muggles?"

"Pure blood."

"Extend your left arm. Let us see that pure blood of yours."

A cool solution was poured onto Percy's arm, but it did not remain cool for long. It began to burn, and boil, as if it were something alive and fighting to crawl inside him right through his very skin. Next, the blade of a knife was placed against the burning, moistened skin and covered by the black-gloved hand of a man who had appeared from nowhere.

"Place your right hand over his," came the echoing, commanding voice.

Percy did so.

"Now push down and cut yourself. Three times, as deeply as you can."

The cutting of wrists was not a popular method for suicide for no reason, but Percy bore down on the blade nonetheless.

The first cut was not a horrible ordeal. He was unable to feel it; instead, he heard the knife grind against his bone and so stopped.

The second cut more than made up for it. Acid flowing into his veins mingled with blood flowing out. He was weakened but felt that he could perhaps summon the strength to cut off his whole arm at the shoulder and be done with the thing. It was not worth this.

The third cut was the worst of all, but the hardest to contemplate because Percy was already losing consciousness even before he began. Sweat, blood, tears, and acid all became one as he thought what he was sure would be his final thoughts.

Percy was revived, though, perhaps a minute later. "Rise!" called the voice, and Percy staggered to obey. His left arm hung limply at his side. His best guess was that the bleeding had been stopped, but he knew not how. He knew only that his previous idea of removing his entire arm and never again putting up with the pain it could feel had been a good one.

"Drink!" commanded the voice.

A cup appeared before Percy, and he downed its contents in a gulp. Instantly, his stomach lurched. Was it Veritaserum, then? Percy had always believed that the nausea Veritaserum was said to cause came not from any of the ingredients found in the potion but from the troubled minds of the imbibers who were about to say things that they wished to keep private. He changed his mind now, and swallowed dryly, trying to keep himself from retching.

"Were the answers you gave me earlier tonight entirely truthful?"

"Yes," said Percy wearily, wondering why they had not just given him Veritaserum at the time.

"You still wish to join us?"

"Yes."

"You have no loyalty to the Ministry of Magic, Albus Dumbledore, or non-Pureblood causes?"

"No." It took Percy until his third answer to notice that he was lying, lying through Veritaserum. He was not even fighting it. Had he convinced himself to play his role to the hilt? Did he really believe . . . ? He had neither the time nor the strength to properly analyze the answer to that question.

"Why do you wish to join us after a lifetime of loyalty to the Ministry?"

"The Ministry was not what I believed it to be. It made a fool of me when I thought it would bring me power."

"Do you understand that you may endanger your family?"

"Yes. It's worth it."

"Are you loyal to your-- let's narrow this down. How do you feel about your brother Ronald?"

Percy was about to repeat his statement to Flint, that he loved Ron but did not think the way he did, when a memory of their time together at Hogwarts suddenly shot to the forefront of his mind.

"Get-- away-- from-- there--" Percy said, striding toward them and starting to bustle them along, flapping his arms. "Don't you care what this looks like? Coming back here while everyone's at dinner--"

"Why shouldn't we be here?" said Ron hotly, stopping short and glaring at Percy. "Listen, we never laid a finger on that cat!"

"That's what I told Ginny," said Percy fiercely, "but she still seemed to think you're going to be expelled, and I've never seen her so upset, crying her eyes out, you might think of her, all the first years are thoroughly overexcited by this business--"

"You don't care about Ginny," said Ron, whose ears were now reddening. "You're just worried I'll mess up your chances of being Head Boy--"

"Five points from Gryffindor!" Percy said tersely, fingering his prefect badge. "And I hope it teaches you a lesson. No more detective work, or I'll write to Mum!"

And he strode off, the back of his neck as red as Ron's ears.

"No," Percy told the assembled group. "I don't love Ron. I thought I did, in a he's-my-brother-so-I-have-to fashion, but the more I think of him, the more I see that he was in my way. Nearly lost the Head Boy position for me with all the stunts he pulled. Brothers can be very different. They can share blood and not give a damn about each other. Not know a thing about each other," he completed bitterly.

The circle seemed to accept his statement, but, had Percy had more ability to string together a coherent thought, he would have been more concerned about whether or not he accepted his statement. Had Ron been right, all those years ago? Did Percy care about Ron? Did he care about Ginny? How could he say this under Veritaserum, without thinking twice?

"Extend your arm again." Percy did so, with no small amount of effort, and saw that it had been half-sealed so that it looked something like raw meat. Then, the light that surrounded him vanished, and all that he could see was a glowing brand making its way toward him. Before the brand burst entirely into flames, Percy was able to recognize the Dark Mark.

He could not see the man who advanced on him, but after he had seared the long-feared emblem onto Percy's already wounded arm, he whispered "Welcome," in a voice that chilled Percy to his core.

This must be him. The Dark Lord himself had just touched him, marked him, branded him. Instinctively, Percy tried to look at the figure, but he saw him no more than he saw those standing in the circle around him.

The bludger was thrown at his chest, and he found himself sprawled helplessly on the floor of his office.