Right and Wrong

Right and Wrong

I'm right, they're wrong. I'm right, they're wrong. . . .

I'll be surprised if that thought isn't embedded into my skull by now. Of course, he'll be able to extract it by means of Legilimency as he has so many others. I hope he does, perhaps he will feel more favorably toward me then, despite my family's reputation as blood traitors and my previous association with the Boy-Who-Lived, or the Chosen One as they now call him.

I'm right, they're wrong. . . .

They're all following the wrong person now, even Scrimgeour is bending over backwards to try and please him, try and get him to work for the Ministry. All because they think that this raven-haired, emerald-eyed, impetuous teenager - yes, teenager, a mere child - will be able to defeat the Dark Lord, the greatest wizard the world has ever seen!

I'm right, they're wrong. . . .

The fools, I am sorry that I once counted myself among them, had the same vision of the idealistic society where all witches and wizards, regardless of lineage, were the same. A tale told to the naïve - my family among them - who are so lowly that they don't want to believe that purebloods, true purebloods, can rule the wizarding world. However, it is true, all too true, he says. My master is the only right one, he and us - his loyal group of followers - who are taught the truth by him.

I'm right, they're wrong. . . .

The abnormally loud ticking of the clock disturbs me from my musings over my cup of tea, grown cold by now. I check it and see that it's a quarter to midnight, I'm due at the ceremony in fifteen minutes! The time's gone by fast, too fast. . . .

I'm right, they're wrong. . . .

The clock gives another louder-than-usual tick, telling me to hurry up. Quickly, I go to the coat rack and pull my robes on, freshly laundered from Madam Malkin's. It was odd when I first moved out to not be surrounded by redheads and fresh-smelling robes, though darned lovingly in many places.

Mother. With seven children, she was doing tons of laundry daily. What will she think when she's heard that her son has gone over to the supposed Dark side? Oh, mother, how little you know. . . .

I'm right, they're wrong. . . .

Driving these thoughts from my mind, I fasten a black traveling cloak over my robes and don a skull-like mask, taken from deep within a cutlery drawer. I certainly don't want visitors discovering it, especially Penelope. Poor, sweet Penny, she still believes that I'm her old, innocent beau. How wrong I was then, how malleable I was to the Muggle-loving fool, Dumbledore's, hands.

I'm right, they're wrong. . . .

Glancing in a cracked, age-spotted mirror above the sink, I straighten my mask, hiding my telltale hair and brush spare dust from my robes. Appearance is everything; this is one of the few things that I've learned from the former Minister of Magic. He helped my master very much, ignoring his return so nicely while other servants of my master were sent to retrieve the weapon.

Imbeciles, they were facing six teenagers, one of them my all too noble brother, Ronald, aligning himself with the Boy-Who-Lived. He could have been a great help - when serving the right people, that is - but he is on the wrong and losing side.

I'm right, they're wrong. . . .

A last check at the mirror renders me acceptable and I say, "I'm coming, my Lord," to the mirror, before Disapparating with a pop.

I am greeted by another black-cloaked and masked figure much shorter than me, as I Apparate into a large, stone cavern.

"Come this way," the man says by way of greeting, beckoning with a strangely shimmering hand before scuttling down a small passageway like a rodent of some kind. I follow, having more difficulty maneuvering than the small Death Eater.

Finally, the small man leads me to a barren wall of rock and, without further ado, pushes me through. For a human so small he is surprisingly strong, I think, just before I hear a cold voice from the chair - much more like a throne - in front of me.

"Ah, yes, Wormtail is like that sometimes, one of my little gifts to him. Is it not, Wormtail?"

"Yes, my Lord. Thank you, my Lord," Wormtail squeaks, kissing my master's robes before scuttling over to his spot amid the throng of Death Eaters surrounding my master and I. There are some familiar faces among them, though our master does not like us to have too much knowledge of each other: there is young Draco, how wrong I was about him and Bellatrix Lestrange; I have seen her face in the paper too many times to not recognize her. Of course, that was when I believed that the Ministry's side was the winning one.

"Weasley, come here," the Dark Lord orders almost as a father would a son, except for the cold and austere manner of his voice.

However, my real father, what will he think of me? What will he think when he finds out that his law-abiding, gullible son has joined forces with the Dark Lord?

"Your father will be killed, blood traitor that he is!" my lord hisses fervently. "We are your family now, Weasley. Crucio!"

Pain floods me, as it has so many other times before, when I've been caught thinking about my family and what they would think. The pain makes me forget, just as successfully as Memory Charms do and now it seems that my mind has been narrowed down to one basic, primitive thought:

I'm right, they're wrong.

The pain ends abruptly and I lay on the hard, damp, stone floor, gasping for air, my mask askew and my robes covered in dirt and grime once more.

"That's right, Weasley," the Dark Lord says, heeding my recent thought. "You are right, I am right. Those Muggle-loving fools will die all too soon and how sweet it will be. Will it not be, Weasley, to punish those who have held back the true purity of wizards, marrying Mudblood and scum?"

"Yes, my Lord," I say, getting clumsily to my feet and wiping a trickle of blood from my temple. I see several Death Eaters hiding smirks.

"Good. Now, come here. Unless you would like another dose of pain?"

"No, my Lord," I say, quickly walking forward, head bowed, coming to kneel at the foot of his robes. I kiss the hem of them reverently before daring to gaze up into the cat-like red eyes.

My master gazes at me out of those merciless red eyes before beginning to speak. "You have proven yourself valuable, Weasley," he finally says. "Why, if it were not for your ready information, we would never have been able to attack St. Mungo's and kill that imbecilic Fudge. You have pleased me."

"Thank you, my Lord," I say respectfully. It is best to not be too arrogant in front of the Dark Lord, but inside I am bubbling with elation. He will not regret his decision.

I'm right, they're wrong. . . .

"Therefore, I find it only fitting that you are inducted into the noble ranks of my Death Eaters," my master is continuing.

"Yes, my Lord."

"Do you pledge to serve me eternally?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Do you pledge to never turn spy against me, to never reveal my whereabouts?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"And, do you pledge to follow every command I give you, even if it is to kill someone in your own family?"

I'm right, they're wrong. . . .

"Yes, my Lord. I will kill the blood traitors if need be. They are not my family anymore, my Lord."

My master smiles cruelly. "Good, Weasley. Hold out your arm."

Shaking with anticipation, I hold out my left forearm, drawing up the sleeve of my robe for the Dark Mark to be implanted on my skin.

I'm right, they're wrong. . . .

The Dark Lord places his wand to the skin on the back of my forearm, that cruel smile still firmly in place.

I'm right, they're wrong. . . .

"Are you ready, Weasley?"

"Yes, my Lord."

I'm right, they're wrong. . . .

"Avada Kedavra!" My mouth opens in a silent scream as the life is knocked from me and the last thought I hear is this:

They're right, I'm wrong.