On a cold day in October, Regulus Black asks James Potter to help him kill the Dark Lord.
James is swept up in machinations beyond his comprehension, and before his eighteenth birthday he has a Dark Mark on his arm and an innocent death on his consc...
this one is LONG (12K). i'm not fully satisfied with it. i'm sure you'll like it more than i do.
btw i also made this silly doodle of my boys :) i posted it on tumblr/twitter but i figured i should also just put it in the fic lol. this is basically the only target audience for it
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
i hope you enjoy the chapter <3 thank u for reading
Pain. It was burning, and needles and pins, and stabbing. Black spread over his skin from the tip of his wand, black like a tattoo, like poison, like blood in water. He watched the dark mark stain his skin, and tried desperately not to let the pain show on his face, tried not to let him know how much it hurt, tried not to let anyone call him weak. James wasn't weak. Each day that passed leant him more evidence to reach that conclusion about his own nature. Shadows had tugged at him for months, and now the shadows were under his very skin.
It felt like eternity. The pain didn't stop when the wand lifted, it stayed there, writhing like something living.
James stared down at the mark on his arm, skull, snake, infinity.
He'd gotten it before Regulus. For some reason, that stuck in his mind.
He looked slowly from his arm to the Dark Lord's burning eyes.
"Thank you," he managed to say, through pain, and no more fear. Not any fear at all. Not a trace of it. He was hollowed out. Empty. "I'm not worthy."
"You will be... someday." Voldemort smiled. It was an oddly warm smile, generous and soft. Human. "My dearest, newest friend, I'm so glad to know you. I hope you grow to love me enough to merit devotion, for me, not the boy. You can kill all the muggles you want. You can make them pay for hurting him. If it was up to that thing, he would be dead. You would be alone."
"You already have my devotion, my lord," said James, numbly. He was amazed with his own presence of mind. He felt like he was floating above his own body. He wasn't here, in this horrible place, with a dead thing at his feet. He was floating as she did, above all the light in the room, without a body, without a face. He was outside of this skin, not inside of it. He was far away. His hands didn't feel like his hands.
"I have your life and your devotion, and I'll keep both until you die." Voldemort touched his cheek. His eyes were colder than any others James had ever seen, despite their crimson, burning glow. He was colder than any winter. "You did not disappoint me, James."
"I hope to never disappoint you, my lord." James looked past him, at the sea of silvery masks in every direction, the wall of dark robes and burning white light. Was this the light of perdition? Punishment seemed inevitable to him now, for this. He didn't believe in god, or hell, but both were swimming at the forefront of his mind, hovering in front of him. Evil, real evil, hadn't seemed within reach for him for a long time. He'd thought himself innately good, and kind, someone always moving from worse to better, someone who wouldn't hurt people, someone who would never do a thing like this.
