Apology

The words to a poem from her childhood floated unbidden into her mind, and Attica began snaking toward the castle, the poem still in her thoughts:

Asphodel and phoenix feather,

Ground as one not mixed together.

How did the rest go? She couldn't remember...

She sighed and continued treading carefully to avoid the eyes of Death Eaters and Potterites alike. Only Voldemort's inner circle knew of her involvement or would recognize her, and friendly fire would be imminent from the other Death Eaters. And as for everyone else ― well, she had left that life a long time ago, choosing instead to utilize her nights for far more fruitful endeavors than personal relationships. Yes, she had remained a student in name, but that was only to keep an ever-watching eye on Potter. It was part of her arrangement with the Dark Lord, and she hadn't wanted to displease him before the opportunity to kill the boy presented itself in a way that allowed for little to no cleanup on her part.

Once the stone courtyard was visible, Attica began scanning for the most advantageous position in which to hide. She needed to be close enough to see but far enough away to avoid any fighting which might ensue, which would only distract her from the real objective. Glancing around herself, she saw few Death Eaters. This was something she had expected, as well. She knew that Voldemort would enter, encircled by his most devoted followers. Except me, she thought wryly, imagining the cloaks that would surround the Dark Lord upon his triumphant return to the castle that was once considered to be the place that was most safe from him.

Yes, she thought. The courtyard looked promising. There was no doubt in her mind that the Dark Lord would choose that ancient place to finish what he had started. He might even parade the black-haired corpse through the stone archway of the school, she supposed, to show McGonagall and the others who had been blindly following Potter that their hero was dead, that there was nothing left to fight for now. Some twisted part of him would want to see their faces as they gazed upon their lifeless hero. He would stand victorious and offer pardon to the very people whose homes he had shattered and whose families he had destroyed. And they would lose every ounce of pride that remained in their weak bodies when they dropped to their knees before him to beg him for their lives. Some of them would be too proud to beg for their own survival, or too heartbroken from the loss of loved ones at the hand of Voldemort that they would not resist submitting themselves to the same fate.

Reducing a person to this state of surrender fueled the Dark Lord. Voldemort hungered for life, as everyone knew. But he also had an insatiable desire to be worshipped, feared, to be hailed as a conqueror, and to be the father of a new age. Attica couldn't explain exactly how she knew those details, but she did. Those faint glimmers of insight into his thoughts had allowed her to earn the Dark Lord's trust so much more quickly than the others had. As she tucked herself neatly away in the crevice of a forgotten watchtower, she allowed herself a small smile as she recollected the hateful sneer that painted the face of Bellatrix Lestrange when Voldemort had unexpectedly drawn Attica into his inner circle without presenting her with half the hoops that Bellatrix had had to jump through just for him to go to the trouble of learning her name.

~~~

After the Tri-Wizard Tournament, Attica was certain that Potter was telling the truth about Voldemort's return. She had begun to carry the vial of Elixir on her person at all times, convinced that this was the danger that her grandfather had warned her about. But while it had been mostly fear causing her to wear the charm, she found that after a month of carrying it with her, the fear had grown less substantial. Her nightmares were still vividly real, and she often woke in the middle of the night with her whole body shaking and covered in a cold sheen of sweat. But in her dreams she was no longer running from Voldemort as a weak soul searching for escape. She was wildly powerful and undaunted by the bodies piling up around her, and she was not cowed by the thought of the Dark Lord. In a way, it was almost like she was Voldemort, so convinced was her dream-self of her invincibility...

And then the dreams of Potter had started. She found herself loathing him, unable to see him in person without being confronted with a resurgence of the hatred that consumed her dreams. She felt drawn to him, but not like a moth is drawn to a flame. It was more like a shark drawn to blood in the sea. It was bloodlust - irrevocable and instinctual.

It had taken months to obtain an interview with the Dark Lord himself. She thought of it as research. Surely he, of all people, would know about Potter's weaknesses. As a fellow classmate, she truly should not have found it difficult to end Potter. But the boy had survived attack upon attack by one of the most powerful wizards of all time. Attica was true to her Sorting. No Ravenclaw worth her sapphires would step into a situation without first learning as much as possible about her enemy.

Shortly after Voldemort had formally welcomed Attica into his ranks, she sat at the long black table in the luxurious dining room at Malfoy Manor. The meeting had come to an end, and she was flooded with anxiety as Voldemort beckoned for her to stand before him at the head of the table. Snape sat at his right hand. The seat on his left had been newly vacated by Bellatrix Lestrange. It had been a particularly tense conference. Lucius Malfoy was beginning to have doubts, and the Dark Lord could sense it in the penetrating silence of the echoing room.

It wasn't helpful that, the night before, Goyle had caught Greyback abandoning his post as an outlook at the Department of Mysteries to take up a more... immediate form of fulfillment. The woman he attacked was an official of the Department. It was only a stroke of luck that she was discovered to be a Mudblood, and so, the Dark Lord was willing to overlook the indiscretion he so unapologetically described as "a reckless, but fruitful, incursion into extermination."

When Attica reached the end of the table and stood before the Dark Lord, she detected his irritability. It rolled off him in waves of disdain that she could tell he was trying to contain under the mask of the regal and forgiving Master. The majority of the Wizarding World thought that Voldemort ruled by fear, and in a way that was true. But that was only the easiest way to coerce his followers to do as they were bid. It was not the most effective. The Dark Lord knew that it would be more beneficial to him, in the long term, to gain the unflagging loyalty of his subordinates. Its absence created a perverseness in his temper seldom rivaled by any other circumstance with which he was presented.

Instinctively understanding this, Attica felt it was wise to proceed with caution. If he were to discover that her true motives fell well outside the realm of a simple and defining fealty to him, even a quick death would be an ambitious hope.

"There is something amiss, here, I can feel it..." he whispered so that even though the large room was crawling with Death Eaters, only she and the Potions Master could hear.

"My Lord?"

"You have offered your services, and I admit I was shocked to hear of your clandestine allegiance to me... I am most skeptical of this. You are not a Slytherin. Neither do you belong to a family that followed me before the minor setback. In fact, you may blame me for the death of your family. You cannot blame me, surely, for wondering why someone like you would want to join my ranks. Unless you had some sort of... agenda." His eyes were focused on her and the internal conflict between a profound sense of belonging and debilitating anxiety waged on.

Attica steeled herself with a quick breath and, clenching her hands into fists at her sides, she attempted to drudge up what confidence she could. She had a role to play.

"I am sorry," she said in a tired voice, trying to convey genuine regret. "I confess that there is more to the story, my Lord. But I beg that you give me the opportunity to explain myself, even though I deserve no such leniency."

"Ah," Voldemort sighed, seeming to have reached a conclusion even as he reached for his wand. He leaned back against the ornately carved wood of his chair with the satisfaction of a man proven correct. "You will learn to regret withholding secrets from me, child," he said simply. He locked eyes with Attica and the pause that followed was the tensest moment she had ever withstood. Finally, he looked away to place his wand on the varnished surface of the table before him. The threat behind the gesture made Attica's nails dig into the flesh of her palms.

"Speak," Voldemort said expectantly.

"My goal in coming to you was not simply to join your Death Eaters," she said carefully. "I am a selfish person, and the guilt... My Lord, I have waited years to apologize to you."

That seemed to surprise him. The Dark Lord searched her gaze, and Attica sensed the delicate weight of Legilimency press against her mind. She opened herself up to him, and offered the memories of flames enveloping her home, the conflagration lapping up the stone and mortar of the Flamel estate. She felt him swiftly extricate himself from her mind, and Attica fought the urge to beam with triumph; he had not perceived the walls she had so assiduously built in preparation for this encounter. He only saw what she had intended him to see, and undoubtedly he had not met with any snippet of her thoughts that would make him certain of anything but Attica's loyalty. He looked distinctly disappointed; traitors he had dealt with, but the young woman before him was not what he had expected.

"Years? Explain yourself."

"When I was taken from my home... Dumbledore and McGonagall came to resolve the matters of the estate. Dumbledore was looking for instructions to the Stone, and I knew where they were, but I said nothing." She could feel the alarmed gaze of the Potions Master on her countenance. He knew that if she mentioned his name, his days would be numbered and few. The Dark Lord would not punish him lightly for the betrayal.

Voldemort seemed to consider her words. "That is all?"

"No, there's more. Dumbledore set fire to the manor, and so the instructions were destroyed. This you know of course, my Lord." Attica dropped her head in shame, trying her best not to overplay her role. "If I could have removed the documents before, my Lord, I could have hastened your return. You would not have needed any other assistance, and your objectives would have not been neglected as long as they have been," she whispered in what she hoped was a convincing act of penitence.

"So you came to me to tell me of your... remorse?" That word, meant to convey such emotion, seemed foreign coming from the inhuman figure seated before her.

"Yes, my Lord. The welcome I received was most unanticipated. I was expecting to be punished for my inaction." Attica paused for a moment, but Voldemort seemed to be processing this new information. In the seconds of silence, Attica allowed herself a glance at the Potions Master, who was studying her with a calculating gaze.

"I know you must punish me, my Lord. For my omission," she said quietly as she tore her eyes from the professor.

"You were but a child," Voldemort said finally, looking up. "And you have seen the error of your actions. I am, nonetheless," he paused momentarily, as if to find the word he was searching for, "... touched by your sentiment. By your loyalty." Attica searched his demeanor for doubt, but all she could garner from his person was a rush of some satisfying emotion radiating from him... Shocked, she finally found the name of the sensation he was feeling. It was pleasure. She wondered briefly if he was this decipherable to everyone. Apparently he was not, as Snape was still alert and rigid in his seat with distrustful expectation that would have been lost on someone less observant than she. He darted a glance at Attica, but she quickly retrained her eyes on the Dark Lord.

"Bella," Voldemort called in a soft voice that, to Attica, bespoke his power within the circle. He did not have to raise his voice much above a whisper for his followers to hear him, so attuned were they to the nuances of their master's voice. Bellatrix wasted no time in rushing to his side, all but pushing Attica out of the way to get closer to him. She was dressed in black, of course, and her sleek, sophisticated robes hid a bustier if her exaggerated figure was any indication. She was curvy and seductive and any fool could see whom that was intended for. Bellatrix all but fawned over the Dark Lord.

"My Lord?" she asked silkily as she stood before him. She stared into his face confidently with her dark and heavily hooded eyes.

"Would you please find Miss Flamel a set of new robes? She no longer needs to wear the ensemble of the neophyte, I believe." Out of the corner of her vision, Attica saw Snape relax his unyielding posture microscopically. But she knew that if she met his gaze, there would be a question in his eyes. Obviously she was keeping his involvement a secret...why was she doing so and what else was she hiding?

Bellatrix hesitated. "But she is new, my Lord. She belongs in the rough wool robes," she whined in a stilted voice that scarcely concealed her annoyance. "The silk is reserved for the long-faithful―"

"I am well aware of that, Bellatrix," Voldemort interrupted in a deceptively calm tone. It was clear that he did not appreciate having his wishes questioned. "The robes, Bella. It would not please me to ask again."

Bellatrix acquiesced with a murmur of respectful assent that belied the tight-lipped, narrow-eyed countenance that now turned on Attica. Walking away from the table, she pinned Attica with a glare of pure abhorrence. Attica knew she should have been afraid of the woman. She was a Lestrange, after all, and a known madwoman. But instead of cowering from Bellatrix's antagonism, she let reflex take over.

Attica met her eyes and smiled knowingly.