❝𝑨𝑵𝑫 𝑳𝑶𝑽𝑬 𝑾𝑨𝑺 𝑵𝑬𝑽𝑬𝑹 𝑭𝑹𝑬𝑬❞
in which there is a war to be fought, and two former opposites realize what it really means to lose everything.
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or:
in which sage fontaine and sirius black don't know how to cope with the realities of w...
It seemed only fitting that the weather that day consisted of an overcast sky that threatened to dump an ocean full of water down upon the city. The streets would flood if the clouds decided that they wanted to punish all of London, and Sage Fontaine would have preferred that if it meant she didn't have to do the hardest thing she'd ever done.
Even burying her brother had been easier than this.
Because as she walked up the long drive, past hedges that were trimmed to resemble snakes, she knew that this day—this hour, even—could end in one of two ways: either she got the Dark Mark and pledged her life to Voldemort, even if it was just so she could be a better spy for the Order, or she could wind up dead on the cold floor of her former friend's home.
She longed in that moment, hearing the heels of her boots clack on the paved path, to go back to the beginning of her sixth year at Hogwarts, when the war had just been a whispered threat, not yet affecting her directly or killing those she loved.
Narcissa Malfoy welcomed her into the house with a frigid smile, her hand that circled Sage's wrist in a near strangling grip just as icy.
Sage had never seen Voldemort in person before, or even in the papers. In fact, she'd seen her parents in the Daily Prophet more in the past year than she had the Dark Lord.
Nothing could have prepared her to see him in all his grotesque glory for the first time. She'd heard tales of his looks at Order meetings, mostly by Mad-Eye Moody after one too many firewhiskys. But she'd always thought that his drunken ramblings were simply rumors.
Voldemort's skin was as pale as a December snowfall, with harsh purple veins tracing up from the collar of his robes. His eyes were red and snakelike, and his nose—barely there—was merely two slits for nostrils.
He looked like a poorly reanimated corpse.
"Miss Fontaine." The Dark Lord said breathily, clasping his cold and clammy hands around her own. "I have heard much about you from our dear Bellatrix. I hope you know how much of an honor it is to receive the Dark Mark—most of my followers will never get the privilege of being marked by me."
Sage was shaking so hard that she feared he'd be able to feel her tremble. It took everything in her to hold back vomit.
She realized that he was expecting a response. Clearing her throat, she replied, "It's an honor, my lord."
He smiled, showing off cracked and decaying teeth. "Excellent. Are you prepared to pledge yourself to me? To come when called, and to follow my orders?" He asked.
What am I, a fucking dog? She thought to herself, stomach rolling at the thought of being controlled by the man—or monster—who was responsible for driving Regulus to fake his death and run for his life.
The thought of Regulus was enough to spur her on and motivate her. The sooner she got the Dark Mark, and the sooner she gave enough information to topple Voldemort down from his throne of misguided supremacist beliefs and terrorism, the sooner Regulus could come back and be her best friend again.
Galvanized by the idea of a world no longer at war, she nodded and tipped her chin upwards, giving the monster before her what she hoped came off as an appreciative smile.
Voldemort pulled out his wand, a white piece of wood that looked just as bony and diseased as he did. He held it up and stared at it as if it was everything he could possibly have hoped for, before placing the tip of it onto her left forearm.
He whispered something, words she couldn't hear well, and the tip of the wand began to glow.
At first, there was only a slight tickle along her skin where the wand had been placed.
But not even a moment after, there was a searing heat, like her arm had been held over a roaring fire. Where the burning feeling was, her arm seemed to blister and bubble, the skin turning every color of the rainbow in mere seconds.
She bit her lip so hard that she tasted blood, desperately trying to hold back either tears, a scream, or the urge to faint.
In the midst of the pain, right when the agony was growing to be too much, she saw Sirius's face in her mind.
He was looking right at her, giving her his most charming smile, the one he had used on her every single day in the weeks before they'd gotten together.
She remembered how much he loved her. She remembered how he had kissed her forehead in the entryway of her home that morning, and how he had made her promise to come back alive.
The memory of Sirius was barely enough of a spark for her to hold back every bad thought she had running through her brain. It was enough to send a new wave of energy through her body.
She grit her teeth, and she watched as the burned flesh of her arm turned from angry, raised skin, into a tattoo that symbolized everything she hated.
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