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Chapter 5 : Goyle Sr.: Dangerously Swift
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The moon shone brightly through the branches above. An eerie stillness had taken over the surroundings, and only the sound of snapping twigs and brushed leaves could be heard, as two cloaked and masked figures hastily walked deeper into the forest, leading a third with them.
“Constantine!” one whispered harshly to the other.
“Vladimir!” snapped the second. “You were told not to speak in his presence!”
“Forget that,” the person, named Constantine, answered. “There is no way this one will be inducted.”
“And what makes you say that?” Vladimir replied sarcastically. “You saw what he did to that family…”
“The Dark Lord wants something more out of possible candidates – more than the just murdering a family, perhaps…”
“Where are you leading me?” the third one whispered quietly.
Enraged, the other two dropped their quarry, and Constantine kicked him against the side – the fallen man doubled in pain.
“You are not to speak unless spoken to,” he said angrily. “The Dark Lord punishes such audacity with death! Now rise!”
Coughing, and still clutching his side, the man staggered to his feet. The front of his robes was streaked with dirt and leaves. He looked up and set his gaze on the two cold masks, bearing down on him.
“Idiots,” he rasped out.
The retaliation was immediate – a fist punched him hard in the stomach, and he was about to fall again, but this time he was not permitted to do so.
“Walk!” the taller of the Death Eaters commanded, and with the pain still coursing through him, he took a few tentative steps forward, but then allowed himself to be dragged by his captors.
An owl hooted somewhere from within the trees; in the distance, the glimmers of a fire could be seen. Not needing much thought to induce it, the man figured that he was being taken where the fire was.
At last, they reached the clearing. Half unconscious from the cold and exhaustion, he felt his hands being tied behind his back with some kind of prickly rope, but he did not protest.
The other two left him to collapse on the ground, and he did not look up again for quite some time.
The fire still burned as brightly as before, but that was all which was happening. From the warmth that washed over him, he slowly regained his senses. He became aware that he was breathing heavily and raggedly; no sound came from around him – as if the wind itself was afraid to rustle the leaves…
Finally, he managed to look up. The sight that met his eyes surprised him greatly. Heart pounding with fear, he observed, as a great circle was formed by the ghostly figures, clad in sweeping black robes, their faces obscured by the same pale white masks he had earlier seen on the two people that had dragged him here earlier.
They stood still once the circle was arranged and bowed their heads, evidently expecting something - an entrance, perhaps?
The fire still burned, as did the fear within him. Too weak to stand up, he remained on the ground, his head lowered, but still high enough to see what was happening in front of him.
Without warning, the mysterious people simultaneously collapsed one knee, and bowing their heads even lower. The atmosphere was tangible with terrorizing anticipation – was this Dark Lord showing up?
The name itself was one to strike fear. The man remembered Grindewald, defeated some years previously by Dumbledore, but he never called himself the Dark Lord…
Still observing silence, the Death Eaters waited patiently. The wind unexpectedly picked up – suddenly, unnaturally quickly…
It intensified considerably. Squinting his eyes against the gale, the man registered the robes of the others in the circle beat violently, and then, a loud crack sounded – the firelight was extinguished, and a far more bright light, uncommon to an apparition, turned the night into a day for the briefest of moments.
The wind died instantly. Now, however, darkness ruled over the congregation, encapsulating the feeling of fear and terrorizing anticipation that seemed to have gripped everyone. Not a sound could be heard either – as if Death herself had descended upon the forest; only the cold stars above shed the faintest glow on the clearing.
Someone was walking inside the circle – robes were dragging against the ground and the deep breathing of the individual was also prevalent amidst the stillness.
“My supporters!” rang an extremely cold voice. “A new age has begun!”
Dare he make a break and run? No…he was hopelessly outnumbered…he would be killed immediately; but perhaps, under the cover of darkness?
“Pureblood will reign,” continued the mysterious owner of the voice that sent shivers down the spine. “It is our duty to purge the world of those unworthy of magic – those, unworthy of our heritage – Mudbloods, half-bloods, mixed breeds. We must make this world the domain of ancestral wizards!”
Loud cheering met those chilling words. Listening intently, despite the panic ruling his mind, the captive internally agreed with the speaker…
“Where do you think you’re going?” snapped a silent voice behind him, and turning his head around, he saw the vague outline of another one of the supporters. “Incarcerous!”
Ropes bound him tightly, and he could not move a muscle. “Don’t try anything funny, or I will kill you,” said the unknown person in his ear, and then rose to listen to the figure that was speaking in the center of the circle.
“Any news of the Ministry?” he asked the crowd at large. “Macnair?”
“Yes, my Lord,” replied a deep voice. “We have successfully placed a spy in the Auror department. He will oversee and inform us of all plans of the ministry in that regard.”
“Excellent. I am glad our own plans are moving ahead accordingly,” said the one known as the Dark Lord. “Leontiev, Karakov, what news of you?”
He recognized the voices that acknowledged the question, to be of the two who had brought him.
“My Lord,” said one of them immediately, Constantine, it must have been, “we managed to track down and deliver him, at your request.”
“Bring him forth, then,” said the Dark Lord expectantly, quietly.
Wand light burst from tens of wand tips, and the clearing was at once bathed in light. The captive was roughly forced to his feet; and the ropes disappeared as suddenly as they had bound him – he hadn’t realized he had gone numb.
A wand jabbed him in the back, and prodded him to walk forward.
“Move!” a voice behind him snarled.
Slowly, the circle broke to admit him. Not one head turned, nor did anyone react.
Fear still weighing him down, he felt his limbs move of their own accord. Unable to utter a word, the man stopped once the others behind him held him back, and released him. He heard them slunk back towards the fringes of the circle.
The person opposite him was tall and thin, but still frightening and imposing. He had his back turned, and stood, as if contemplating some thought…
“Darius Goyle,” he spoke at last.
Upon hearing his name addressed by the man in front of him, he nearly blanched from the fear that was building.
“Darius Goyle, I am Lord Voldemort, and you are my supporter – a Death Eater.”
Voldemort turned around to face him.
Goyle’s panicked mind barely registered what he was seeing – the Dark Lord’s face was pale, pointed, intent – his eyes were dark and empty, but determined; yet, he was still hauntingly handsome.
“Do you accept your charge?” Voldemort asked the newcomer.
Goyle’s mind had ground to a near complete halt. A few seconds passed, before he could answer. “Y-yes.”
“Good. You would have been a fool to refuse,” said Voldemort smoothly. “Stand up.”
Shakily, Darius stood to his feet, on tenterhooks about what was awaiting him next.
“You are about to find out what happens to those, who disobey me,” continued Voldemort. “Crucio!”
The dexterity and speed with which the Unforgivable was delivered surprised Goyle, but he did not have time to ponder it – indescribable pain shot through him with the intensity of a thousand hot knives, slicing through his every nerve…
It ended just as abruptly as it came – only to be repeated several more times. At last, exhausted, Goyle collapsed on the ground, incapable of even directing his eyes above.
“Rise,” commanded the Dark Lord quietly.
Seeking to avoid more pain, and quite possibly death, Goyle did manage to rise himself to his feet with what little strength was left in him.
“You are now a Death Eater,” Voldemort told him. “Follow the example of the others – do not deviate, or you will be killed. Now, we have to make it official…roll up your sleeve.”
“Thank you, my Lord,” Goyle responded quietly, and with trembling fingers, rolled his sleeve to his elbow, as requested.
Voldemort pointed his wand at his forearm. “Modresad Morte.”
A thin streak of light was released from the tip of the wand, and upon impact with his skin, Goyle felt another dose of intense pain shoot through him – the beam was engraving something in his skin, or more precisely, burning it in – behind it, the black outline of a complex shape was taking form…
A scream caused by the continuous pain escaped him, but Voldemort did not seem to notice – he was too concentrated upon etching the Mark on the forearm.
He was being marked, and marked for the rest of his life – his being, and his soul, were now the property of Voldemort now.
Finally, the light died, and the wand was withdrawn.
“You are a Death Eater, remember that,” Voldemort said. “You follow my orders.”
“I will, my Lord,” Goyle said, bowed deeply, more from the resounding hurt in his arm that obedience to the man standing in front of him.
Voldemort beckoned him to join the ranks of the circle, and handed him a set of black robes, along with one of the pale masks.
Taking it to be his cue, Goyle quickly donned the robes over his head, and snapped the mask on his face…somehow, it all felt strange, alien and terrifying, but then there was a hint of a promise, reward even, perhaps…
Slightly more confidently, but still weak from the cold, curses and fear that had wracked him tonight, Goyle walked between two other masked figures that had parted to open a space for him.
“Welcome,” the one to his right whispered. “Didn’t think you’d make it.”
A minute passed, before Goyle replied. “Yes, well…you thought wrong.”
Nothing further was exchanged, as attention was recaptured back by the Dark Lord.
“The sun rises,” he said, “and the Reign of Terror begins with it. Remember what your mission is, and with those words, I leave you.”
Mere seconds later, Voldemort disappeared in another flash of light. To the east, the sky was indeed lightening, as witnessed through the tree branches. A bird chirped somewhere from the bush, and the congregation of Death Eaters started to break up - they disapparated in groups of two or three. Confused, Goyle looked to the two standing on either side of him, and they turned their heads towards him.
“You’re coming with us,” one said, and without further hesitation, they grabbed him, and disappeared into thin air.
The clearing had been empty for hours. Only the remains of the fire bore signs that someone had been present there. Night was drawing its veil of darkness once again; however, one last unexpected event happened – almost unannounced, with the faintest of pops, an old man materialized out of the air. He wore long, sweeping robes, and half moon spectacles framed his face. His sharp gaze surveyed the scene around him quickly, and he sighed deeply, with seeming regret.
“Tom…what have you done…”
Yet, only the wind answered, rustling the leaves of the trees around the clearing. The strange wizard took one last look and, just as quietly as he had appeared, a sudden soft pop announced his departure.
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