The House Elves whisked the empty plates away, the remaining bits of food to be scraped into the trash. Last mouthfuls were chewed, last swigs were swallowed, and silverware was set down all at once, creating a cacophony of clinking. Jewelry was adjusted on necks and fingers, sleeves pulled down where they may have slipped up to reveal Dark Marks. Backs pressed against hard wooden chairs, nails curled into palms. The air was stale and the energy was stiff, every exhale a new complaint or worry.

Antlia's spine was ramrod straight, half-crescents permanently scarred into the flesh of her hands. Her breath was held in her throat, compressing down, down, down. She was nervous, the whole dinner spent glancing over her shoulder at her father sitting beside her. His face was stony up until he disappeared into a room with a handful of the other fathers. Antlia knew that the dinner was a cover for something darker, something that contained much more malice. A Death Eater meeting.

They had been in the room for an hour at that point, and nothing could be heard from behind the shut door. Numerous charms and spells had been cast on the mahogany wood, essentially creating a dead spot in the Black Manor. No sound got in, no sound got out.

Antlia desperately wished that Lyra was there, but she wasn't. Apollo was deemed too weak of a man by Walburga Black to be invited, and the Greenwood family had always been outsiders. If Lyra was there, they would be whispering to each other, laughing at the way that some of the Pureblooded girls acted. Her father would have glared at her, Antlia would have been reprimanded in private, but it would have been worth it for those few minutes of respite from the harsh world.

Regulus and Nova were there, but they were each fighting their own battles. Regulus was slowly being pulled into being a Death Eater, his resolve unraveling as Nova was put into graver and graver danger. Nova was dealing with her curse, her voice floating in and out of control. Antlia had seen them huddled together in the common room with tears soaking the other's shoulder for too many nights to burden them with her problems. They were young and they were weighted, as most of the Purebloods were.

Antlia was scared. She was scared for her future, for the future of every child in the room, for the future of the Wizarding World if the students in the room were the ones that were supposed to save it. Most of them were prejudiced and spoiled but broken. So, so broken. Everyone was broken. Fragments were scattered everywhere, and no one was able to put them back together again. She was like cracked glass. One touch and she would shatter into a million pieces.

She was terrified of what would happen when her father came back into the room. She had a feeling, deep in her gut, that his letter was talking about this moment. This was the moment that caused the deep-rooted feeling of dread that permeated through the room.

All her fears culminated when her father stepped back into the room, several men close on his heels. "Antlia," he said, his voice grave. It grated against her ears, striking every nerve that she had. "The Dark Lord would like to see you now." It wasn't a request, command laced through every word.

All eyes in the room swiveled to Antlia, the mindless chatter dying down. They were judging stares, wondering what she had done to warrant a private meeting with the Dark Lord. Almost no one that was still attending Hogwarts went to private meetings, initiations to join the ranks of the Death Eaters normally done in large batches. It was unheard of. But the Dark Lord had never been one for following the rules.

Antlia pushed her chair back, the scraping of it on the wooden floor glaringly loud in the silence. Her heart was beating, thump, thump, thump, booming in her ears. The click of her heels was deafening, one foot in front of the other. Her ears focused on sounds, bringing her attention away from the looming danger. She took breath after breath after breath, desperately sucking in air. It didn't help calm her, feeling her palms become sweaty.

"Father." She nodded in acknowledgment. It was stiff as she brushed past him into the small room where the Dark Lord sat waiting for her. Her father didn't say anything, as if he knew that he was condemning his daughter to a life that she didn't want. Condemning her to hell for her future actions. Condemning her, cursing her, sentencing her. She could never go back from this moment.

"Antlia Avery," the Dark Lord called out, drawing the girl in question's attention to him. He was seated on a chair just shy of a throne, giving the implication without being overly dramatic. Because that was how he worked. He could have been a king, but no, he chose lord. And still, people followed him. They worshiped him, raised him up like a god. If he had a crown, there would be no rising to the heavens. He would be constricted by a kingdom. Even kings have to bow to someone.

Tyrants are not kings. Kings protect their subjects with their dying breath. Kings open up their coffers when the poor are starving. Kings are just, they are kind, they are good. Kings don't let their sheltered world of bubble wrap prevent them from doing their duty. Or at least they are supposed to. History is riddled with both kings and tyrants. When the choice comes down to it, how does one make the decision to become a tyrant? Is it a split-second decision or is it a slippery slope that eases into position? Do you think that you are doing the right thing until one day you look out from your stone walls and see only destruction? The Dark Lord thought himself a god, and he would force his followers to worship him a such.

No matter how many times Antlia saw Voldemort, she was always startled by his appearance. It changed throughout her memories, melting and melting. His facial features looked like someone had held them over an open flame and then shoved into an icebox, freezing it. In her earliest memories, his face was clearer, crisper, and more defined. But it had mutated as he had grown darker, as his hands grew redder. Crimson stained his flesh, the blood of innocents dripping into a pool surrounding his throne.

Antlia blinked, the scarlet receding from her vision. It had been a figment of her imagination, but it wasn't far off from what the future may bring. She dropped into a curtesy, gathering her long skirt up in her hands. She stayed in that position, her head bowed, submissive, until she heard the signal from the Dark Lord.

"Rise," he said, and she did. She felt like a puppet every second that she stayed in that room. Every second she stayed was a second that she was suffocating. Eventually, she was going to run out of air, and become a brittle shell of herself. A shell that snaps, a shell with sharp edges. Sharp edges that draw blood.

"My lord, what is it that you need?" Antlia said, keeping her posture and her voice small. She rounded her back, casting her eyes towards the ground. Her words were soft and quiet, projecting the statue of the perfect little girl. She painted the image with her blood and tears, salty sweat and liquid leeching out of her body. She was draining, draining, drained.

"Did you know, Antlia, that your father was about your age when he swore himself to me," he said. His eyes bored into Antlia's head, watching her with a knife-like gaze. He tried to burrow into her brain, tried to burrow splinters underneath her skin. His gaze burned the back of her head, suspicious and calculating. Her mother had been a known traitor, a spy for the order. It was reasonable to suggest that Antlia had ties to the other side.

"Yes, my lord." Antlia shuddered inwardly at the thought of her father, young and in love, willingly swearing himself into the service of a madman. He may have been a better person then, happier and less combustible, but Antlia had never known a version of him like that. She only knew his current persona, hard like steel and able to be set off at the slightest touch. Her father was dynamite, bright and explosive.

She did not want to feel the touch of a wand to her forearm, a burning spreading through her flesh. She did not want dark ink to stain the smooth skin there, to have no return. She did not want it, but she knew that it was coming.

The Dark Lord opened his mouth, and Antlia knew what was coming. His mouth formed words, syllables dripping like poison, and Antlia knew what he was saying. "I want you to swear yourself to me. I want you to become my servant. I want you to get the Dark Mark."

Author's Note

So... how did we feel about this chapter? I actually really like it! That bit about blood was written really late at night and I had no idea what I was doing, but I kept it. Also, semi-cliffhanger. Not in my story plans, but that's how it ended up happening. Oops? I hope that you liked this chapter and thank you for reading!

- Nicole