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“I have a confession to make.”
Antonin looks across the table at Corban. They’re both well in their cups following a very successful revel. The Dark Lord is pleased with them — they caused a lot of panic and destruction tonight. Another mark in his favour, another win for their camp. Antonin thinks they stand a pretty good chance of winning this war.
But Corban doesn’t look like a man who has just completed a successful mission, nor one who is basking in the praise of his master. Instead, he looks… troubled.
“What is it, friend?” he asks.
Corban glances around at the others. The few that haven’t already staggered away are snoring; he and Antonin are the only ones still drinking. Instead of answering, he says, “Let’s get some fresh air. Go for a walk. It’s too stuffy in here.”
“Can you walk?” Antonin says.
“‘Course I can,” Corban scoffs. “You know I can drink even you under the table, Ant.”
“Depends what we’re drinking,” Antonin counters. “As I recall, when we were drinking that bottle of Beluga, you were first to go to sleep.”
“That was some sort of cursed liquor,” Corban argues. “Either that, or you slipped me a sleeping draught.”
Antonin laughs. “Yes, keep telling yourself that, Corban. Come on then. Let’s take that walk, and you can tell me what is on your mind.”
They step out into the night. It's winter, and the air is crisp and cold, causing their breath to fog in front of them.
For several minutes, they walk in silence. Antonin has remembered to bring the bottle, and they pass it between them. The liquor warms them and prevents their buzz from retreating.
“When you first joined the Dark Lord,” Corban begins at last, “What did you envision for your future?”
Antonin considers this. Truthfully, he wasn’t really thinking about his future when he swore fealty to their master and took the Mark. He says as much, then adds, “I suppose it’s because I knew I’d be fighting our enemies and might meet my end in combat. Or be captured. Although, I’d take death over Azkaban, I think, given what I hear about the conditions there.”
“Did you ever think there was more to life than war, though? More to life than fighting and being hunted by the Ministry and Dumbledore’s thrice-cursed Order?”
“Not really,” Antonin says, shrugging. “What are you getting at, Corban? You’re not having second thoughts about your loyalty to the Dark Lord’s cause, are you? Because death is the only way out of his service. You know this as well as I.”
Corban reacts with silence, and Antonin stops short, grabbing Corban’s arm to halt his forward progress.
“Corban,” he says quietly. “Tell me that’s not what you’re thinking. Tell me your confession is not something utterly foolish, like ‘I’m considering defecting from the Dark Lord’s side, Antonin.’ ”
“When you put it like that…” Corban sighs. “Ant, you’re my best friend. The only thing keeping me here at the moment is you. Truthfully, I was hoping to convince you to leave with me. We could hide somewhere, I know it! If we can just get out of the country—”
“Krovavyy durak! Bloody fool! Hiding is out of the question, Corban. We cannot hide from him, not with these!” Antonin yanks up his sleeve to reveal his Mark. “He can, and will, track us to the ends of the earth. We would not be able to hide forever. What you’re proposing might as well be suicide! What has possessed you to even think of it?”
“It’s just… the death and destruction is wearing on me, Antonin. I thought it would be fun. A bit of torture here, a few curses there… destroy a building or two… but it’s just mindless slaughter with no real purpose.” Corban’s expression is pleading. “Please come with me. Leave this madness behind. Let the Dark Lord have his war, while we live our lives as free men somewhere. We’ll find a way to get rid of our Marks — I’d remove my arm if that’s what it took — and forget about this part of our lives.”
Antonin feels incredibly conflicted. He knows what he should be doing — dragging Corban before their master, outing him as weak and a traitor. But he won’t. He can’t. They’ve been friends ever since they took the Mark together, back when the Dark Lord hand-picked the first of what he would later dub his Death Eaters.
However, he also can’t allow Corban to continue to entertain such a foolish, dangerous notion. Not only because of the danger it poses to his friend, but the danger it poses to Antonin himself. Were the Dark Lord to discover Antonin knew about Corban’s disloyalty and did not report it, both their lives would be forfeit — and they would not die quickly or easily. No, the Dark Lord would make an example of them both, turn their punishment into a spectacle. They might suffer for days, or even weeks.
Something must be done, he thinks. But in order to protect them both, he will need a clear head. Antonin grasps Corban roughly by the shoulders. “We will talk about this again when we are both sober,” he says. “But in the meantime, shield your mind. Do not give away even the slightest hint of your true thoughts, you understand me?”
“Yes, of course. I’ll play my part, Antonin.” Corban relaxes slightly. Perhaps he thinks Antonin is considering the proposal. That’s probably for the best — if he feels Antonin supports his idea, he’ll be less likely to say or do something in the meantime that might cause suspicion.
“Good. Good. Let’s retire for the night, and talk again soon.”
Several days later, they meet in a secluded area, far from the prying eyes of the Dark Lord and their fellow Death Eaters.
“Well, Antonin? What is your decision? Will you come with me?”
“My decision is to save your foolish hide as well as my own.” He withdraws his wand. “I am truly sorry, my friend. This is the only way.”
Corban begins to back away, hands raised in supplication, his expression betrayed and frightened. “Antonin, please… don’t do this.”
“Everyone has secrets, and this should have been yours, Corban. I will make sure your secret remains safe, even from you.”
He points his wand at his friend.
“Obliviate.”