The Idea

This story was originally hatched out of a very voluminous archive of threads on a closed Harry Potter RPG active from 2004 to 2006 (during our high school days). Some of what we created was rather, well, creative, and being the aspiring writer of the group, I used the dialogue that Jules collected to compose short scenes. Together, we formulated a central plot that we all liked, and I sat down with a very rough timeline (that still exists in its original unclear form) and wrote out the first three chapters of a crackfic entitled How to Misspell Despair.

Due to both laziness and pride, I have decided to modify these first chapters only slightly, and the script from which J is working is largely derived from these original chapters, written in 2006. The precursor to this blog (which was intended for a written fic) can be found quite appropriately on livejournal.

Prologue

The pub was dingy and grimy. Tom grinned from behind a delicate flute glass that most certainly was not a loan from the bartender. That was his favorite thing about the place. It had that rustic quality—well, not quite rustic--but ancient at least. The beams above his head were crumbling, and the ceiling was only held up by magic. But the place had a charm, Tom thought, and he had many memories of bringing his friends into the bar for no reason other than to get completely pissed. 

Inebriated, he corrected himself, and then silently berated his mind for lapsing into the slang he heard so often now. Though his body was sixteen, his brain certainly was not, and he did not intend to become in every way the less-ept teenager he had once been. He raised his right hand to examine his tapering fingers and slender palm. Yes, this body was indeed perfect—just as he remembered. 

Tom paused for a moment, his black eyes taking in the features of the chubby bartender as he counted bronze Knuts into a money box just below the counter. The man caught the handsome boy watching him, and he shifted nervously, and slid his work further down. 

Tom laughed. “Nervous tonight, are we?” he asked, inserting an upward tilt to his voice in an attempt to sound boisterous.

The bartender looked up in surprise.

“Aren’t we all these days,” he said, rubbing two Knuts between his unwieldy fingers. Tom smirked, thinking that in only a few days, the wizarding world would be worried about more than a little recession.

He leaned back, pushed his glass towards the bartender and said, “That’s the ticket—a little anticipation always comes in handy.” 

The chubby man refilled the glass with a flick of his wand as Tom dropped three silver Sickles onto the counter. The bartender’s eyes bulged.

For a moment he gawked, and then he looked up at Tom and laughed. “Thank you kindly, son. Old wizarding family, I suppose?”

Tom’s smile faded at the mention of the other man’s physical seniority, but returned upon the question. “Why, as a matter of fact, yes. A very old wizarding family.” 

The bartender grinned and looked up at the handsome boy. “Which?” he inquired, squinting at Tom as if to decipher the puzzle of his ancestry.

Tom winked. “Black,” he answered, catching the next beat. He smiled again, thinking that his mouth would hurt later tonight from all the evil smiles. He enjoyed lying to the man, especially since he now appeared to be the son of the previous barkeeper. 

He squinted at the bartender, who had closed the money box and was now wiping dusty mugs. “You know,” he said slowly, “you look very familiar. When did you start manning the bar?”

The man swelled with pride. “After my father died, I took over for him.”

Tom tried to look sympathetic. “How long ago?” he asked, for all playing the part of curious regular.

“Eight days ago, as a matter of fact,” he answered, his voice devoid of sadness. His voice dropped as he confided, “He was murdered, you know.”

“No!” Tom said, attempting a shocked expression. He knew all this already. Intimately. “By whom?”

The man shrugged, still cleaning the same mug. “That’s the thing. Nobody knows. I came in here one morning and found his body. All mangled and bloody like that.” He paused. “It was a right mess, too.”

“You don't sound upset.”

The man shook his head. “Nah. I hated the old man anyway. I came into a nice sum of money and now this place is mine.”

Tom nodded. “And what a charming place you've turned it into.”

The man scowled at him, clearing mistaking his sincerity for sarcasm. Tom shrugged and looked towards the door. The bar was still as empty as it had been when he arrived, and he slammed his fist on the table to see that his latest devotee had not yet arrived.

Boredom convinced Tom to switch to Firewhisky and as he knocked one back, the bell above the door to the pub clinked. He looked up to see a young man casually sauntering towards him. He was thin and fair, but slightly flushed, and he carried an ebony walking stick at his side. The boy wore a bored expression, and Tom gave him as subtle a smile as he could manage.

“Lucius,” he said politely in greeting, as the blond man sat down beside him. Lucius’s hands were gloved, but he did not remove the winter wear, or his overcoat. He turned to Tom and murmured, “Tom, I—." With a single look from Tom, the words caught in his throat, and ordered a round of Firewhisky.  The minutes ticked by, and Tom still did not speak.

Lucius shifted in his chair, looking concerned. He placed his cane on the bar counter and began stroking the ornamental snake head that adorned its tip. Then Lucius leaned forward and asked in a whisper that barely made any noise at all, “Tonight. I’d like to do it tonight."

Tom laughed loudly, drawing the attention of the other patrons, and he looked at Lucius with amusement. Lucius quickly drank his Firewhisky and visibly flinched.

“Oh dear,” Tom said as he finished his drink and raised an eyebrow at Lucius, who was trying to hide his confusion, "you may regret such a weak constitution in about three minutes."

Tom winked, got up, and motioned for Lucius to follow him down the hall and into the little room he had rented. Lucius placed his cane by the door, and removed his outerwear. Tom watched with amusement as Lucius discovered that his shirt was hastily buttoned, and he turned to tidy himself up. 

"Got a room at the Three Broomsticks with your lady-friend tonight, I take it?" Tom asked, succeeding at making basic small talk sound menacing. Lucius turned, still buttoning his shirt, and nodded. "I've just asked her father for her hand, and we were doing a bit of celebrating."

Tom nodded. "Pre-marital relations always have been my very favorite."

Frowning, Lucius remained silent as he straightened his outfit.

"I hope you do realize that in joining me, you are not just aligning yourself with an occasional cause," said Tom, beginning to circle Lucius.

Lucius looked up at him. "I am prepared."

Tom laughed unkindly. “You say that you want to join my band of followers, and you wish to give me your life long service in my cause. Are you aware that this commitment will consume your life, that everything you do will be to serve me and only me?" 

"Yes," Lucius said, and licked his lips, "of course."

Tom's lips curled slowly into a cruel smile. "Good."

He withdrew a long and delicate wand from inside his robes, and looked expectantly at Lucius.

Lucius hesitated only for a second, before offering his left forearm. With a sudden vehemence, Tom jabbed the tip of his wand into the flesh of Lucius’s arm. The boy’s breathing grew rapid, and he screwed his eyes shut as a thick black fluid issued from the tip of Tom’s wand. It melted the uppermost skin, and fused to the body in a pattern that depicted a figure. A ghostly skull graced his forearm when Tom removed his wand, finished. From the mouth of the skull came a great serpent. 

The initiation was done. The dark mark burned in Lucius’s skin, and he bit the inside of his cheek in order to keep from crying out. Tom looked curiously at the tattoo before placing his hand upon it and sending another spasm of pain through Lucius’s body. Then Tom smirked as the boy struggled to remain standing, and he turned away from the obvious pain. He walked to the door and opened it to leave.

The boy was panting against the wall, but he had not fallen, and Tom shrugged off the petty feelings of guilt that tried in vain to bother him. “You are utterly pathetic, Lucius,” he said as he swept out of the room.