Darkness Prime

Darkness Prime

The boys in the seventh-year dorm were fast asleep, all but Marcel.

Marcel sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the pajamas sitting nearby - folded and placed squarely on one of the pillows. He began to wonder, silently, how long he had sat there, staring at the empty bed next to his. He wondered how long before that he had waited in the Slytherin Common Room, wanting to know the answers - to hear them at last from the young man he considered to be his only best friend.

Thoughts inside of his head diverted from the tongue that he spoke at Hogwarts - not his native tongue - and formed instead in the one he had grown up with, the one he spoke as a child.

I must know what he's up to, Marcel thought in French. This year, he's been different. Distant - even from me. Did it start this summer? No, last year. After that Hufflepuff girl died, after that Gryffindor boy was expelled for it.

He stared down at his shoes. He had not removed any item of clothing but them, and now they awaited him, sitting together, side by side. He slipped his feet back into them and tied them tightly. Then Marcel rose, gliding silently for the door.

Six years - he said 'we'd sink or swim together'. Always. Six years of sneaking books out of the restricted section, taking them from my father's collection. We learned the forbidden spells, the Dark Arts - together. We never kept a secret from one another. We even practiced Cruciatus on one another - that is trust. Marcel swept up the staircase from the dorms to the Common Room. Why now does he shut me out? What is he keeping from me? What happened this summer - when he did not come to my house for the first time in all of those five summers that we've known one another?

The Common Room was deserted. Marcel's grey eyes swept the room as he looked for anything out of place - any indicator of the place that his companion had gone.

Perhaps he is on his rounds, performing his duties as a Prefect. Yes. He has to be in the castle somewhere...

Marcel resolutely headed for the secret door to the Common Room, slipping out into the dungeon hallway. His feet made little noise as he started by walking the dungeons first.

Not even a house elf stirred. The only sounds in Marcel's ears were the fall and rise of his own breath and the flickering of torches in their sconces. The Potion Master's office was locked, and, upon passing the Caretaker's office, Marcel found the same to be true. Afar off, he heard the soft chimes of a clock proclaiming the hour to be one. Sighing softly, he continued down the corridor until he reached its very end.

Marcel turned around, preparing to make his way to the nearest staircase, then jumped. The Bloody Baron floated behind him.

"Out of bed, Marcel?" the Baron hissed, his silvery eyebrows arching.

"I could not sleep," Marcel said with a polite nod of his head.

The ghost nodded slowly. "You are not the only one. I saw Tom Riddle not half an hour ago."

"You saw Riddle?" Marcel started toward the ghost, then paused in his footsteps. "Where is he?"

The Baron floated backwards a bit, tilting his head. "I do not know where he is now. He was headed toward the courtyard when I last saw him."

"The courtyard." The boy frowned, then moved aside the ghost. "I will go there, then."

"Do not allow yourself to be seen," the Baron hissed. "Go quickly."

Marcel did as he was told - heading for the stairs that lead to the ground floor, then down the corridors to the courtyard. Grey eyes darted about, looking into every shadow, seeing Professors walking down every corridor, then realizing that he was, indeed, alone. As he entered the courtyard, shadows loomed long under a bright full moon. Afar off, in the Forbidden Forest, a howl penetrated the night air.

The night was unusually warm for September. Somehow, despite the unseasonable air, Marcel found himself shivering. He steadied himself as he crossed the courtyard, moving in the direction of the small hut that sat there. Marcel knew that within the crude dwelling, the boy that had been expelled lived. Rubius's duties now included taking care of the wounded animals he found rather than going to class and learning magic. Marcel had also heard rumour that, on occasion, Rubius would make wood carvings to sell in Hogsmeade.

No sound rose nor light shown from the hut now.

Marcel avoided any twig that he could, any leaf that might alert the giant boy within the hut to his presence. He started toward the Forest itself, arms crossed before him, eyes searching out the slim, dark form of Tom Riddle. He saw nothing in the trees - nothing but the silvery fog that danced between the trunks, and floated   upward to the smallest of branches, nearly obscuring his view of the stars above.

Drawing his wand, Marcel stepped into the forest. Not a twig dared snap, and if any animal moved, it was quite out of the range of the French boy's hearing. He steadied his breathing as he moved from tree to tree, penetrating the unknown with care, until at last it seemed that he had been walking for hours. He turned around, and saw nothing but the silvery fog behind him.

The scent of melting tallow rose to his nostrils. Marcel followed the scent to his right, wand remaining drawn as he did so, stepping cautiously, trying to make little noise. The fog closed around him, removing the moon from his vision, and he only saw grey - silvery grey wrapped around him. His heart began to race, but he tried not to gasp, tried to keep himself in check. Panicking will do you no good, he thought. There is powerful magic at work, and if you have pursued it, you must find it...

At last, Marcel stepped through the fog as if it were a fabric curtain, and he found himself in a clearing. The trees all around him held thousands of summers in their trunks - he could see this by their sheer size. Just behind their trunks, the fog remained solid, almost as if the enchantment that brought on the obscuring winds could not penetrate the circle of trees.

Inside of the circle of trees stood Tom Riddle, his wand outstretched. Behind him stood a table and two chairs. The table was covered with lit candles - the same sort that were arranged in a smaller circle around Tom that did not quite reach the roots of the ancient trees themselves. Tom faced Marcel, but not with an expression that the French boy interpreted as anger or surprise, but relief.

"I did not think you would come," Tom said at last.

"It is a full moon, Tom," Marcel said, starting for his roommate. "You are in danger in the Forest, even in practicing the Dark Arts." He paused at the edge of the candle circle.

Tom shook his head. "None of the creatures in the forest will penetrate the circle. Nor will anyone else if you were followed. I set it so that only you and I could be inside." The dark-haired boy raised his wand, and with a mutter of a few words, the air suddenly grew closer. Hotter. "Now, neither of us can leave until I break the enchantment."

Marcel could not suppress the shiver that overtook his entire body. "Tom, I do not understand. If you wanted me to help you with a spell, why did you not tell me?"

"Because I didn't need to. I knew you would come." Tom started to the table, his cloak floating in the humid air. Upon reaching a chair, he turned back to Marcel. "We should speak, Marcel. Come here."

Marcel looked at the circle of candles, then back to Tom.

The dark-haired boy chuckled lightly. "Do not worry. It's not activated yet. Come." He beckoned the fair-headed one closer.

Marcel stepped carefully within the circle and made his way to the open chair. As he and Tom took their seats, Marcel saw at once that a tarot card deck sat in the center of the table. Unlike the one he knew that Tom owned, this one was not secondhand, with bent corners and battered edges. In fact, the cards looked brand new.

"I see you like my new tarot deck," Tom remarked, running his hand over the cards. "It was a gift. You see, Marcel, there's something I have been keeping from you. It is time that I was honest." He smiled. "I have a benefactor now. A father that loves me and looked after me this summer."

"You were adopted?" Marcel inquired, still staring down at the deck. "That is wonderful. Why did you not tell me?"

"Because I could not." Tom lifted his gaze, studying Marcel's face. "My new benefactor is quite...how shall I put this...secretive. A man that desires solitude. I do not live with him, you see. But he sees that I have a place to live and comforts that I never had as a child."

"That is odd, Tom. The Ministry - they approve of this arrangement?" Marcel met his friend's eyes.

"Why, they do not know." Tom caressed the tarot deck with his fingertips. "However, despite all of this, I have told my benefactor of your kindness to me over the years. He was quite...anamoured with my tales of our adventures and our studies. He instructed me to reward you for your dedication...Your friendship." Tom smiled softly.

"You told him of our studies?" Grey eyes widened. "What sort of benefactor is he?"

Tom tilted his head a bit as he took the tarot cards up in his hand. "One that will wish to meet you someday." He began to shuffle the cards, slender fingers working as he did so, turning the cards over and over as he cut and shuffled them.

"A Dark Wizard." It was not a question, but a statement Marcel knew to be true.

Tom's brown eyes graced the pale face of the boy before him. "Those that embrace the darkness find their   own. But first things first. Your reward. You see, this reward comes with a small price. Do not think me selfish, but your kindness alone cannot cause the spell to work." He placed the deck between them - flat on the table. "You gave me a home and friendship. Would you give me more?"

"You know that I would, Tom," Marcel replied, his face paling.Â

"This tarot deck was created for the sole purpose of Dark Divination. Some of the symbols are the same, some are not. Some are Muggle, some are Wizarding." Tom patted the deck with his palm, then drew back entirely, his fingertips resting on the edge of the table. "Choose six cards, but do not look at them."

Staring at Tom dubiously, Marcel did as he was told, placing them face down on the table in front of him.

"Give them to me." Tom beckoned a pale hand toward the other boy.

Again, Marcel did as he was told, with doubt in his face though no words rose from his lips.

Tom's eyes darted back and forth as he examine the cards. "Interesting," he murmured. He began to arrange them on the table, reading their names aloud. "The Devil. The Mist. The Empress. The Dragon. The Corpse. The One of Coins." He looked up at Marcel. "Choose two to keep for yourself. The remaining four are mine."

Marcel hesitated, fingers hovering just above the cards. Then, he dropped his hand into his lap. "I cannot unless you tell me what they mean, Tom. I see members of the Major Arcana that I do not know. I never practiced Dark Divination - how can I know what will give me the best advantage in this game?"

Tom smirked. "A Slytherin to the end, my dear Marcel. My answer to that is that I will not tell you what they mean." He clucked his tongue. "Come, Marcel. We have been friends since we were boys, have we not been? And now we are men. We have cast upon one another spells that would get us both locked away in Azkeban - and all for the sake of practice. That is trust. That is love. Have I ever given you cause to distrust me?"

"No." The pale-headed boy dropped his gaze to his lap.

"Then choose two cards. You see, I am allowing you to pick your gifts, as you will."

Marcel raised his eyes, looking the cards again. At last, his hand moved to the two he found the most familiar and safe - the Empress and the One of Coins. He took both into his hands.

Nodding slowly, Tom took the remaining cards, rising from the chair with a sudden and decisive gesture. "Stand in the center of the circle," he said in a sharp voice.

Though he also stood, Marcel did not move from his place. He watched as Tom placed each card at the cardinal direction points of the circle. He watched as Tom paused at the western point, sighing as he looked down at the last remaining card in his hand. "Two will come together - one light, one dark, and be my end in this world should I not stop it." He stooped, putting the card on the ground.

Suddenly, he whipped around, his wand in his hand. "Expelliarmus," Tom hissed.

In pure surprise, Marcel fell backwards as his own wand was torn away from him. Tom caught it in midair as the French boy fell to the ground.

"I do regret this, but I'll need only one focus of magical power in this circle," Tom said softly, placing Marcel's wand into his robes.

"What are you doing?" Marcel asked quietly as he regained his feet.

"Preparing your reward. Now, don't be a fool, Marcel. The power is rising." Tom gestured to the center of the circle. "Stand there. Don't make me place you under Imperius."

The pale boy crossed the circle, standing still in the place Tom indicated. His hands were at his sides, though he kept eyeing Tom's robes, looking at the place in which his wand had vanished.

Tom began to move counterclockwise around the circle, slowly at first, an incantation that Marcel had never heard rising from his lips. When he reached the northernmost point, he began again, repeating the same words. Upon coming to the same place for the third time, his footsteps in the dark loam began to glow red, flowing together as if they were lava. As Tom began to approach Marcel, the new circle exploded, blood-red flames leaping into the air.

Marcel froze in place as Tom stopped before him. "Am I still your friend, Marcel?" The dark-maned boy inquired.

"You do not need to ask." Marcel lifted his chin as he spoke, steeling his nerves. "You know that you are."

"I have many plans for you," Tom whispered. "Many things that will bring you to certain greatness. Are you aware of this? That you stand on the brink of glory?"

The blonde boy did not answer. He instead watched the reflection of the flames within Tom Riddle's eyes.

"A new time has begun. The man that I call father has begun work here. Work that will change our   world." Tom's voice began to gain the strength of steel but the chill of ice. "Purity of blood will regain its respect. Someday, Muggles will no longer be able to taint the wizards with their filth. Complete separation, Marcel, but not a separation of worlds, but a new melding, one in which we have control. They will, once again, recall that we hold power over them. The old ways will return. The old families will regain respect. And the Muggles will cower in  the glory of the dawn of that day."

"But Tom," Marcel whispered. "You -" He stopped short, realizing perhaps that this was not the time to speak the truth.

Riddle laughed lightly. "I what? Have a Muggle father? Semantics. These things will matter no longer once I have completed my transformation. The purging of the blood from my veins, the Muggle weakness from my body. It has already begun, Marcel. Either you can join in a war that has been waged since the Dark Times, or stand in my way. Which will you choose?" His hand suddenly clamped around Marcel's wrist with force.

Marcel did not break his gaze with Riddle - nor could he pull his hand away if he wanted to. He was frozen. Mesmerized. "If it is to preserve our world, then I will not stand in your way," he said at last.

Riddle plucked the two cards from Marcel's trapped hand. "The Empress and the One of Coins. You chose your future wife and your future wealth. Those will be yours." He slid the cards into his pocket.

"And what did I give to you?" Marcel whispered.

"The Mist - your soul. The Corpse - your body. The Dragon and the Devil - Marcel, my dear Marcel -" Tom laughed, the reflection of the flame spreading to his entire face. "You have given me your only son. And his."

Marcel felt a cold wave wash over him. His knees began to tremble, and he found himself doing all that he could not to collapse.

"You wish to save them, Marcel? Preserve them? The two generations not yet born?" Tom's face ducked dangerously close to the blonde boy's. "Say that you will join this war. Say that you will serve the Darkness - not the Dark Lord that has chosen to sire me - but that you will serve me - completely and of your own accord. If you refuse, your blood - Malfoy blood - will be spilled upon this ground."

The roar of flame suddenly became very, very loud, the heat singing Marcel's platinum blonde hair. Grey eyes looked to the ground beneath them, then back to Tom's face. At last, he found the words: "Yes. Yes. I will."

Tom's face became suddenly gentle, though his grip remained firm. He took Marcel's arm into both of his hands, slowly rolling up the sleeve of his robes and blazer, then pushing back the sweater sleeve underneath. He unbuttoned the cuff that remained, folding it upwards and past Marcel's elbow. "You have made an excellent choice, Marcel. Your father would have been proud of you, acting in the best interests of your family." Tom traced a counterclockwise circle on Marcel's forearm with the tip of his wand as he whispered one single word that Marcel could not quite hear.

The circle traced upon flesh lit suddenly with red flame - flame the same colour as that which made up the circle that surrounded the two boys. Then the fire caught on, moving to the center until the circle itself was whole. Marcel heard his scream of pain as if it belonged to someone else, watching in horror, unable to look away. His flesh melted, blackened, scarred before his eyes, as his free hand grasped onto Tom's robes, pulling hard, his voice sobbing though his face remained devoid of tears.

Tom extinguished the flame with a flick of his wand. All that remained was the scarring, the charred flesh. He whispered another spell, and bandages shot from his wand, wrapping around the strange mark. Marcel whimpered softly, but did not give his roommate - his friend - his Master - the gift of tears.

"In two weeks, the wound will heal and the scab will fall off. You will find a mark there. Do not go to the Nurse." Tom's voice was soothing as he replaced each layer of clothing with care. "Any salves or potions will destroy the enchantment until it is completely set."

"What have you done to me?" Marcel had been unaware that he had been biting his lip until he tasted blood.

"I have placed a mark upon you. It will burn when I need your services." Tom pulled down the sleeve of Marcel's robes, then released his arm completely. Then he turned away from the blonde boy, making a banishing gesture with his wand. The fire vanished and the fog abated, leaving nothing but the Forest itself.

Through his pain and the burning of humiliation, Marcel suddenly felt a cool breeze. He realized faintly that the circle in which they had stood had been almost devoid of air - leaving the humidity of their own exhalations. Grey eyes glittered with tears that refused to pass pale lids.

"Shall we go back to the dorm?" Tom made another banishing gesture, and the table, chairs, and candles became mere air. He walked over to the place that the table has stood, picking up his forgotten Tarot deck. Then he took a path around the perimeter of the extinguished circle. Â

Marcel nodded. He found that his voice could not rise from his throat.

Tom picked up the two final cards. He paused, glancing down at them before rejoining Marcel, extending them to his roommate. "Keep them as a reminder."

Marcel took the two cards, the figures of the Dragon and the Devil glittering in the moonlight. He tried to block out the pain in his arm, but found that when he took the cards into his hand, that the throbbing only grew, the magical fire within his veins becoming unquenchable. He followed Tom wordlessly from the Forest and back to the Castle.

He followed Tom for the rest of his life.