Benetton Rainbow Complex

Benetton Rainbow Complex

On their last day at Hogwarts, Philip sat with them on the train home. They joked about how they could finally be friends again after a painful separation of seven years. Seven years of bad luck, perhaps. It was most likely Malfoy who broke the mirror.

It was amazing how three people could study in the same school, take the same subjects, and yet, hardly interact at all. Perhaps the only good thing that could be said about the House system was that they got to play Quidditch against each other. After all, competition was a key element in their friendship.

Now, as they sat in the same train compartment again for the first time in seven long years, he listened to his childhood friends chat excitedly about embarking on a new stage in their lives. Malfoy would go into the Ministry; Nott would probably take over his father's company; but what would he do? He had always liked to keep his options open, but in hindsight, it didn't seem like such a good idea after all. He could go to Nott's company; his family had a thirty percent share in it, thus guaranteeing him a place. He could go to the Ministry; he did rather well on his N.E.W.T.s. Either way, there would be friends.

When they alighted from the Hogwarts Express, they decided to go out for dinner together. They were eighteen and seventeen and old enough to be on their own. In the restaurant, he caught sight of their reflections, all three of them, in the glass panes. Malfoy with the blond hair and milky-white skin, Nott with the chocolate brown hair and Quidditch-tanned skin, and him, Philip, with the black hair and dark-brown skin. In a way, they seemed to vary between shades of brown.

Somehow, he still felt as if he were the odd one out, with his skin darker than some people's hair. Then again, Malfoy was the one sitting opposite the empty seat, and Nott was the one next to it. Three was never a crowd to them. They all had their fair share of loneliness.

After weeks of dawdling about, he finally decided that politics weren't for him after all, and so, by default, he joined Nott and Partners.

On his first day at work, he had the vague feeling that his co-workers didn't quite take to him. That feeling didn't go away, even after a while. Eventually, he learnt to ignore it. Besides, he had always been so full paranoia.

He rose quickly to a high position through both effort and connections, though most people seemed to have thought that it was by connections only. The world was never a fair place.

The three of them were still friends, although in a more adult way. They no longer went over to each other's houses to stay (who did anyway?), and they no longer joked that much. The grown-up part of him insisted that reminiscing about his long-gone childhood was a very silly thing to do. However, one is only fully grown when one dies.

While it took up most of his time, he found the job rather satisfactory. Mainly he had to liase with clients from all over the world. He found that the Chinese wizards haggled too much, the Americans too loud and somewhat overbearing, the French too pompous, the Germans shook your hand too hard, the Indians had an odd smell and--Palau, where was Palau?

He suddenly realized that he was being racist in a way. He wasn't to blame; he was influenced. Or so he rationalized.

One memorable day, he met with a Kenyan businessman who harped on about the achievements of African warlocks; achievements achieved millennia ago. And he sat here, wishing that the Kenyan would soon end his harangue. It was so embarrassing. Besides, it was Nicolas Flamel who was the one known for alchemy, not Nicolas Fleming. And what did the Kenyan businessman know anyway? Kenya was ridden with social problems. He suddenly remembered the NHS, which put an end to this train of thought.

Polite racism, if you will. Love everything about the culture except the people. Or at least pretend you do.

Sooner or later their lives had to move on, and move on, their lives did. They were all getting married within months of each other. He couldn't decide if this was supposed to be normal or abnormal. For one, he knew that his own marriage was definitely abnormal.

He was marrying a Muggle. A Muggle! Surely he could do better! But Titania did capture his heart, and he did love her so. The next logical step, of course, would be to get married. All his parents would do, would be to pull him aside and ask if he was really sure, because she wasn't of the wizardkind, then ask why he chose a Muggle in the first place, and other such not-so-polite questions.

His wife-to-be never knew of his wizarding heritage though. He kept it from her, as he could never work up the courage to tell her. However, he did manage to ask his parents to act like Muggles.

He was also very tempted to keep his marriage a secret from his friends. His parents, however, managed to get over the initial stigma and insisted that he invite everyone to the wedding.

It was to be held in a Muggle church!

Not as if it mattered to his parents. He was more worried about how all of his friends might act. They might give themselves away, or some might comment loudly on the superiority of the wizarding world, or something of the like.

He worried about Malfoy and Nott for the most part. They had both married good, pureblooded witches from respectable families. Titania, on the other hand, was-- well, she was a clerk in some Muggle employment centre.

He had originally felt torn between the two very different worlds, but recently, he had come to embrace the Muggle part of the world. He realised that far from being a separate entity, the Muggle and wizarding worlds were, in fact, interlinked. When he thought of it, it could be actually due to the increasing number of Muggles and Muggle-borns involved in the Wizarding world.

To his immense relief, the wedding ceremony went by without a glitch, even with Malfoy and Nott present. As they chatted, it was almost like the good old times again.

The world can never be a perfect place, and the second Dark Lord, more terrible than the one before, and British this time, started his rampant killing sprees. There were rumours of such a Dark Lord for a while now, but no one paid much attention, until lives were lost.

At first, he thought that as his wife was a Muggle, she would be exempt from the horrors the wizarding world periodically faced. But no, this Dark Lord had an anti-Muggle agenda.

The Daily Prophet soon began to report on killings, and everywhere, everyone was preparing for another war.

One evening, he mentioned his worries to Malfoy and Nott, both of whom seemed to hesitate for a while before replying. After all, they didn't have anything to worry about, did they?

Soon, it became obvious that the new Dark Lord's agenda was nothing more than blatant racism, in true Nazi style.

Purebloods are purebloods and Muggles are Muggles and never the twain shall meet.

As the tension escalated, the Dark Lord was actually gaining more supporters. It shocked him to see that there could be people so narrow-minded and deluded as to believe what the Dark Lord promised them.

In light of these developments, it struck him as rather ominous when he received an anonymous letter telling him to go to a house on a hill in Little Hangleton. After much consideration, he traipsed his way there with only his wand for protection. He did not tell anyone in the foolish belief that he should check out what was going on first. If it were what he suspected it to be, he would return with Ministry personnel.

That was his plan ... until he entered the house. It wasn't as if he didn't know. He did. Upon his entrance, he immediately felt a sense of unease, and he desperately hoped that it would not be what he thought it would be.

But how could it be otherwise? He stood there, while the Dark Lords' supporters, in white masks and black robes, surrounded him.

Standing by the fireplace, was the Dark Lord himself.

"Philip Edward Thomas, you have been cordially invited to join my elite group of supporters. Together, we shall restore glory to our kind."

It sounded like propaganda. It was propaganda. He knew that answer in his heart, yet in the face of all these people, he found it hard to summon up the courage to say it.

"Or perhaps, you need some convincing?"

He didn't need convincing; all he needed was to get his answer out. Then--

"Malfoy, Nott, will both of you kindly remove your masks?"

It couldn't be, could it? He did not dare to look. Somehow he knew; he had always kind of known. He would not look. He knew it already. He did not have to look.

"So?" The Dark Lord prompted.

It was at that moment when he realized that everything had changed when he was sorted into a different House so many years ago. Perhaps they had drifted apart. When he really considered it, they met up less often nowadays and they hardly ever laughed together anymore.

Nevertheless, despite everything, he would not betray his friends.

"Very well then. You shall have a few days to think this through."

And foolishly--foolishly because he should have known better--he actually turned to leave the place.

The Dark Lord laughed, "No, you stay here and think this through."

He was a Gryffindor after all; he should have been excused from not realising the consequences of his actions.

He stood there, frozen to the spot, avoiding anyone's gaze, and he knew, he knew all along.

"Crucio."

Pain like he had never felt before, physical pain coupled with the agony he felt from being betrayed.

He wasn't prepared for this, although he should have been, right from the start, when he had the uneasy feeling.

When the pain subsided, he was on the floor, lying down, looking up at twelve faceless faces. Black and white, black and white, and it never were anything else. Right from the start he should have known, black and white. There never was any attempt to create shades of grey to excuse unacceptable behaviour.

The Dark Lord began to laugh again, cruel and mocking. Some of the Death Eaters followed.

"Run, Philip, run. Run as fast as you can, before they catch you."

At once, he felt a dreamlike sensation. It was as if nothing was real anymore. Somehow, he was aware that his legs were moving but he couldn't feel them.

It took him a while to realise that it was the Imperius Curse. He tried to fight it, but all he managed was to fall flat on the floor.

He lay on the floor, drained of all energy, and he resigned to his fate. It was just a matter of how soon he died.

The Dark Lord nodded towards a Death Eater, "Have your turn with him. Come on."

Please, couldn't he just be granted his wish?

"Oh, and if you manage to step out of the door, alive, you're free," the Dark Lord added as an afterthought, with a look of contempt.

How would he manage that?

"Incendio."

The bottom of his robes caught fire. And while he frantically tried to stamp it out, he was surprised that he still had a will to live, despite all of this. Or maybe it was just human instinct.

It was a magical fire that could not be extinguished so easily. The flames were eating into his flesh, he was choking on the smoke, and to hell with dignity--please stop this.

The Death Eaters laughed all the more. He was nothing more than a plaything, yet he would gladly comply just so that this would stop.

The Death Eater who set him on fire conjured up a bucket of saline solution and splashed it onto his legs. He screamed in pain. To hell with dignity, as long as he survived, he reminded himself.

Tears stung his eyes as the Death Eaters' laughter continued.

The next one stepped up and tried to make him dance. How was he supposed to? He was broken.

It did not stop. They made him do absurd things, but he was too weak to resist. They carved words into his flesh, they made him beg for mercy, and then they laughed some more. Everything that he once believed in was now rendered void. There was no way he could call for help, and though he still had his wand in the pocket of his robes, it was useless, for all the magic in the world couldn't save him from this cruelty.

"Can you fly?"

He stared at the Death Eater who asked him that. What did he mean?

Not that he wanted to know. Not that he had a choice.

"Why don't you give it a try? You just might be able to."

Then he felt the deceptively blissful feeling of the Imperius curse again. He was out of the room with the fireplace now; he was on the landing of the stairs.

And then it was all gone.

"Jump."

His legs were horribly charred, still stinging from the pain, bleeding from the friction of crawling his way there. He could no longer stand properly.

"Jump."

What was he supposed to do? He didn't want to, but his body was working against his will. He tried to resist the curse again, only to fall down the flight of stairs. To his disappointment, he did not die or even pass out from the fall.

Why him, of all people? Because he always was the odd one out?

He lay there at the bottom of the stairs, aware that he must have cracked a few bones. He was in an awkward position, with his arms jutting out in odd angles.

Then--it couldn't be--a Death Eater was carrying a large axe with him. Maybe this was the end; he would have his head ruthlessly chopped off.

Alas no, this wasn't the end. That Death Eater--they all looked the same--swung his axe, but made it miss on purpose and hit the floor next to him. In his panic he cried out for help, but why would he receive help from these people, people he had come to know as his tormentors?

That Death Eater swung his axe a few more times until finally--he wasn't aware of it because they hurt enough already--his legs were dismembered. Blood spilled out; he was surprised to see that they could still bleed after all they have been through. He was too numb to be shocked; at least he wouldn't feel the pain anymore.

He could even have been glad that he was unable to look at them, what with his fractured bones and his inability to stand now. His death was not far away and please, please, please let it come soon so he could rest in peace.

After more atrocities, it came down to the three of them.

Malfoy and Nott were left; so far they had been standing aside stoically.

"Malfoy, wouldn't you like to do something? The good old Imperius curse would suffice," the Dark Lord offered.

Malfoy just stood there, so the Dark Lord prompted him again. Finally, it was the "good old Imperius" again, as Malfoy was left with no choice. Malfoy appeared reluctant, but his fear of the Dark Lord eclipsed any feeling of fellowship.

Against all odds, Philip suddenly realised that he was near the door, the front door of the Riddle house. What did the Dark Lord say? If he could get out of here he would be free?

He knew it could never be, but he was so close already. He tried; he tried because Healers could help him get his legs back. He was so close; why couldn't he just try?

Everyone was just watching, eager to see if he could get out. No one was doing anything, and he hoped that nothing else would happen. He was so close.

Lucius, still behind the mask but unmistakably Lucius, opened the door for him. He looked up, but Lucius was still hidden behind the mask, the mask concealing his expression.

Then he looked over to Nott, still standing in the same spot, but now fiddling with his wand.

"Avada Kedavra."