There is Also Beauty in Death

There is also Beauty in Death

Alastor Moody hid in the shadows behind a torn box advertising Drooble's Best Blowing Gum in faded colors. The warehouse was drafty, and the joint between his wooden leg and the stump of his real one ached from crouching for too long. He ignored the pain.

All he had left to do now was wait.

The adrenalin flowed slowly through his veins, anticipating, ready for action.

After six months, six long months, he only had to wait.

Scrape, scrape. Every muscle in his body went tense. His head swiveled silently to see what the noise was. Just the door, swinging carelessly on its rusty hinges. He was on the alert, ready for action.

And he waited.

***

Regulus Black looked at his Master, incredulity and horror clearly written on his face.

The cold green eyes stared back at him. They consumed his vision - they enveloped his soul, proclaiming it as his own. A stabbing pain hit Regulus's left arm, and memories of his Oath and the knowledge of his ownership drowned him in the cold depths of those green eyes. He quavered - and faltered under the onslaught of fear and power bearing down upon him.

He collapsed, knees hitting the hard ground, head bowed, submitting.

He could do nothing else.

***

Igor Karkaroff stood alone in the dark graveyard, shaking.

He watched his Master disappear between the gravestones, and when he was gone, Igor fell onto the cool, grassy floor.

Emotion was not a luxury he could enjoy while in the presence of the Dark Lord. He knew this was under threat of death.

Unbidden, the conversation ran through his head once more, still fresh.

"One of ours seems to have wavering loyalties. The cold-footed one needs to be taught a lesson. Igor?"

"Yes, Master, of course. When?"

"I will let you know."

Fear was not the only emotion battling for control inside of him.

He could not hide from himself the twinge of pride that he felt - he had risen far in the ranks indeed to be disciplining minor Death Eaters. One of the close few...the right-hand man...the second-in-command...

Then, the image of his first flashed into his mind. He saw himself with wand in shaking hand, standing above three motionless bodies. He still heard the curse, rattling and echoing off the bare concrete walls, never leaving him. It was his voice that said it. It was he that - and their eyes, their eyes! So empty, so... they never stopped staring at him.

He leaned back, resting against an anonymous gravestone, and felt the coolness seeping into his skin. His head fell back onto the cold stone. He was tired of thinking. Tired of knowing. Tired of doing.

He did not move again until the sun had fully risen.

***

The door of Number 12, Grimmauld Place burst open. Mrs. Black looked up from the kitchen table to see her son standing in the entryway.

"Mother! Mother, I... He... Mother, I can't do this!" Unable to control himself, he collapsed into her arms, sobbing. "It's horrible - the things he wants me to do. I can't! I...I..." and through his broken sobs, he told her what the Dark Lord was asking of him.

The horror etched on her face mirrored the one that was on his not six hours earlier. This time, however, instead of brown eyes looking into cold green ones, it was brown into brown. She recoiled from his touch, unable to fathom her son committing such an atrocity.

"You need to get yourself out of there! You can't do such... I mean, of course the world needs to be purified, but this? This is...You have to get out!"

"I know, Mother, I know!" He collapsed onto the couch, head in his hands. "But...but I don't know how...I can't just..." He raised his head, locking her eyes with his. "I'll be killed."

***

Sirius Black stared at the letter in his hand. Unwittingly, unwillingly, he threw his head back and laughed. It was not a laugh of joy. It was a mirthless, ironic laugh, and there was no smile on his face. His mother - the woman who had blown his name off the tapestry, obliterating his inheritance, and who had closed the door on his sixteen-year-old face on a cold winter's night - was asking for his help.

His laughter subsided. It seemed that his brother had finally figured out what kind of people the Death Eaters were. Took him long enough. I was afraid I was going to have to kill him some day.

The thought sobered him up quickly. It had been lurking in the back of his mind ever since he heard that Regulus had joined their ranks, but he had never let it surface. He could not be blamed for it - denial is also a form of preservation.

Going to have to kill him some day. The words were sinking in. He could not fathom the day that he would stand against his brother, on opposite sides of the Truth. What did dogma matter when you were ready to take life from your own kin? What was worth fighting for anymore when you were fighting your own brother? What did it matter? What did anything matter?

The letter dropped from Sirius's hand, crinkling as it landed upon the faded, dusty floorboards. Clunk, clunk, clunk. Wood upon wood, making its way down the hall. A scarred hand lifted the parchment from the ground, and brought it to an equally scarred face. The eyes scanned it, then the hand directed Sirius to the kitchen, sat him down, and passed him a cup of tea.

***

Alastor Moody paced the kitchen restlessly long after all of the Order members had retired for the night. He could hear the Longbottoms snoring in time with each other one floor above him.

So Regulus wants out, does he? Makes you wonder what scared him so badly for his mother to contact Sirius. Ach, Sirius. He was in a right state. You'd think that he'd be used to it by now - family isn't family anymore if they disown you - and who wants a family like the Blacks, anyway? But Regulus... If he wanted out, he was in real trouble. He must know that, too... he must know that once submission is given to Voldemort, there is no going back. ...then why the plea for help? Why does he even try? ...but it wasn't him that wrote the letter, Alastor. It was Mrs. Black. ...then will you hand the boy to death with no second thoughts? He is Sirius's brother, after all! ...if we help him, does he have a chance? Do we? Do we have a chance of living if we save him?

The wrath of Lord Voldemort is great indeed.

He gazed at the red embers of the now-dying fire, and turned his mind to other matters. He pulled a scrap of parchment out of his pocket, the writing on it nearly illegible. "IK has been ordered to the abandoned warehouse in Borehamwood in three nights' time - check out?" Leave it to Arthur to write such an obvious, traceable, transparent tip-off. He would have to be more careful next time.

He crumpled the letter in his scarred hand and threw it into the fireplace. He watched the parchment flare up, then quickly burn out. When the frail white ashes had fluttered up the chimney, he placed his teacup in the sink and headed upstairs to bed.

***

Igor Karkaroff was preparing himself for the night. He took a very cold shower, trying to quell his nerves, and meticulously twirled his goatee. He draped his black garments about his thin frame and with one last look in his mirror, pulled up the quintessential hood of the Death Eater, covering his face completely. The CRACK of his Disapparation echoed despondently in the empty house.

Regulus Black shattered the silent nighttime air with a second CRACK! He had Apparated here on the Dark Lord's orders, but he did not know where he was, and he did not know what the orders were. He dusted off his robes, drew his wand, and walked slowly and hesitantly towards the dilapidated warehouse.

A bearded homeless man woke from his drunken stupor upon hearing the first CRACK! He blinked several times and tried to rub out the image of initially Karkaroff, then Regulus from his eyeballs, for surely they were naught but hallucinations. When finding that pursuit rather unfruitful, he threw away his nearly empty bottle of absinthe, cursing it for all of the misfortune in his life, gave up drinking forever, and went on to become president of the United States.

From behind the Drooble's Best Blowing Gum box, Alastor Moody heard both loud signals of Apparation. He did not even flinch. His wand was out, his adrenaline was flowing, and he was ready to meet them when they came. He first saw Karkaroff silhouetted in the warehouse utility door - slightly stooped, very thin. He saw him make his way into the shadows quietly, obviously waiting for something.

But when he saw the second silhouette, he felt his shield of impassiveness crumble. He was no longer Auror Moody, greatest Dark Wizard catcher of all time. He was friend to Sirius Black, brother of the man in silhouette. His head dropped, chin resting on chest, taking his eyes off the scene before him.

There was no way...no way he could... Regulus does not know who I am - he does not know that I know his situation... he would fight me. I cannot fight both at once and expect... even I would go under... But if I saved Regulus and captured Karkaroff - what would happen to the Dark Lord's deserted minion? Snatches of the conversation outside his mind filtered through Moody's thoughts. "Regulus - how charming to see you." ...we've already been through this, Moody! You know the way it has to be - you know it, though you don't like it. You know you must. "Karkaroff? Why are we here? What are we doing?" Let the knowledge that it is the Right thing to do carry you through - it will save you. "We? We are here for very different reasons. I am here because I chose promotion over weakness. I am here to gain the Dark Lord's favor." Now, Moody, pick yourself up off t! hat floor and do what you know must be done. "And me?" Go now! Now!

"You, you insignificant, whining brat, you are here to die." Regulus didn't even have time to open his mouth in horror or in indignation, to beg for mercy or to scorn, before Karkaroff finished, "Avada Kedavra."

Grim determination flowed over Moody's body - now was the time for the reckoning.

The battle between the two formidable wizards raged as only Moody could have directed. He dropped the right hints and fed his opponent the right clues to catch him in his well-spun web, easy as experience could make it. He aimed several kicks at the bundle bound on the warehouse floor after it was over, kicks that were rightfully Sirius'.

Moody's impassiveness did not falter as he stared into the blank, lifeless eyes of Regulus Black. He may have been a Dark wizard, he may have been cowardly, but he had not died uselessly. This thought comforted him as he dragged the limp form of Igor Karkaroff out of the warehouse, through the Floo Network, through the Atrium at the Ministry of Magic, and straight to the dungeons on the ninth floor. He had done his job.

And Man in portions can foresee

His own funereal destiny;

His wretchedness, and his resistance,

And his sad unallied existence:

To which his Spirit may oppose

Itself--and equal to all woes,

...

Triumphant where it dares defy,

And making Death a Victory.*