The Marauders Year Five Part 2 #Wattys2017

The Attacks

The Attacks

The silence of the Slytherin dorms was shattered a little after two in the morning when Regulus Black woke suddenly, screaming at the top of his voice, his mouth open wide, his wrist held before him, the Dark Mark burning scarlet against his pale skin. He clutched his forearm - the scream carrying on and on and on - agonized and horrible, rattling the walls.

Nothing had ever hurt so much in all of the world. It felt as though his skin were melting, as though it were turning to plastic beneath a hot iron rod. He could see nothing, blinded by the white-hot searing pain that completely engulfed him from head to foot.

A flashback filled his mind...

There was the pale face of the Dark Lord, clutching his bone-white wand between long-nailed fingers, a calm, calculating look upon his face as he'd grabbed hold of Regulus Black's hand, twisting his arm to make his wrist show, magicking his wrist down with leather straps on a chair in the parlor of the Malfoy's manor home... He could see his mum, teary eyed with pride, watching over the shoulders of various other Death Eaters, faces he recognized, whose chins were held high and smiles upon their faces... the eager expression of Bellatrix Lestrange, hunkered forward, clapping gleefully, sing-songing her pride at her cousin...

"You'll serve me, and you'll do your family proud," Voldemort had whispered, walking around the chair as Regulus sat uneasily, staring down at the exposed skin of his arm, his heart racing wildly, desperate to get away, yet too terrified to let the emotion show, his cheeks flushed and his breath shallow... "You'll be great one day. I'll see to it."

And Voldemort had lowered his wand... pressed it viciously hard against the soft veins of Regulus Black's wrist... and whispered the incantation...

And that same blurring, white-hot pain had ensnared his senses then, too, that same blinding hot feeling that soared through his veins, lighting him up from head to toe, breaking his mind and sending tears to his eyes, the leather straps on the chair keeping him from moving, a third wrapped about his forehead, holding his head in place... no matter how loud he screamed, he could still hear the Dark Lord laughing... laughing... the Death Eaters - including his very own mother - cheering, shouting Yes, my Lord! as Regulus sat, burning... burning...

And now he felt quite ready to pass out, dizziness spinning him, his stomach flipping over inside of him, bile rising in his throat.

Would it never end, this pain? Would it ever stop?

Barty Crouch Jr. and the others in the third year Slytherin dorm were awakened, and they were shouting for him to stop screaming, trying to cover his mouth with their palms, trying to stifle the sound... Suddenly, the door banged open and there were Mulciber and Avery and McNair, each with their sleeves pulled up as well, their Dark Marks burning as bright as Regulus Black's...

"The Dark Lord's calling," Mulciber said, "Where's your elf, Black?"

Far away from the Shrieking Shack, far away from Hogwarts, south of London, there was a small town and in that town there was a house... a very nice house. The house belonged to Bartemius Crouch, the standing Minister for Magic while the search for Harold Minchum raged. The moon hung over the house, casting pale blue-white light over the roof.

A figure walked slowly down the street toward the Crouch house, swiftly, with a bit of a spring in the step, heeled boots clicking merrily on the pavement. "Doing the Dark Lord's bidding, doing the Dark Lord's bidding," sing-songed a wicked little voice from beneath the dark black cloaks. Loads of curly black hair poked, thick and shiny, from beneath the hood, and bright red painted lips moved about the words as Bellatrix Lestrange cackled and danced her way right to the curbing before the house.