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Black, White and Gray
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"There is a line. Black and white. Good and evil. It is your decision whether or not to cross."

How strange, I mused as I searched my trunks for my Death Eater robe and mask, that I remembered the speech Dumbledore had given when I graduated from Hogwarts. The speech had appeared to be meant for the whole school, but I had the distinct feeling that he had been addressing the Slytherin table the whole time.

I found the items I was looking for at the bottom of the trunk. I held them up, searching for any damage. The mask and cloak forced me to face the part of my past that I refused to acknowledge.

My Death Eater days were short but memorable. I could still hear the Death Eater's screams and pleas ringing in my ears and his warm, sticky blood clinging to my skin before Voldemort made his head explode.

That was when I turned and ran to Dumbledore's office. Although I wasn't expecting a second chance, I begged for it anyway. I took the only offer Dumbledore gave me -- I became a spy.

I had always been the intelligent one among my peers. Even though my intellect failed to speak up when I joined Voldemort, it helped me during my days as a double agent. It also advised me to keep my standard Death Eater's robes, which I laid down on my bed.

Another voice entered my head -- Smith's, one of the Death Eaters that I had captured. He hadn't spit or cursed at me. He had asked me why, and I had answered with the exact words Dumbledore had spoken years ago, "There is a line. Black and white. Good and evil."

It hadn't been the answer he had been expecting, but it had seemed to satisfy him. Then he had replied, in a whisper, "Funny thing about black and white. You mix it together and you get gray. And it doesn't matter how much white you try and put back in, you're never going to get anything but gray."

For a few moments after hearing his response, I hadn't been able to hear anything except my own heartbeat, thundering in my chest and threatening to explode.

I muttered a spell to remove the dust gathered on the cloak, then draped it over my shoulders. Although the heavy cloak shielded me from the coldness in the dungeon, an inner chill managed to ride up my back.

I knew most wizards didn't trust me, despite what I did, during and after Voldemort. All of my effort, the numerous occasions which I risked my life or saved others, was pointless, as I had finally realized. You could cover dried black paint with whatever color you wish, but underneath the layers of colors, it was still black. One tiny crack in the shell and the black would seep through. It didn't matter how many good deeds I had done, they didn't cancel out the bad ones; the bad deeds were the ones that left a permanent impression on people's minds.

After the Dark Mark had appeared over the night sky during the World Quidditch Tournament, I had been called in for questioning. Not many knew because Dumbledore ensured only those necessary would be present. One occurrence, which lasted less than an hour, had undermined my loyalty after almost twenty years of hard and life-risking work.

I didn't want to go back to Voldemort's inner circle. I feared the darkness would consume me whole; sometimes it was easier to let the darkness take over. To turn gray to black could be done easily while impossible to change gray back to white.

I knew there was no such thing as pure black or pure white. Albus might be the lightest tint of gray and Voldemort the darkest shade of black, but I would always be the color in the middle ?an equal amount of blend of black and white. I would always be gray, a color that couldn't be reverted back to its original state because, once the mixture was made, there would always be both black and white, no matter what value it settled on.

I put the mask on, shivered when the cool material touched my face after all those years. I glanced at myself in the mirror, making sure I looked every bit the evil Death Eater. I didn't want to go back, but I knew I didn't belong in Dumbledore's world. It didn't matter how light the gray was, it would always stand out against the white.

I didn't belong in Voldemort's world. No matter how dark the gray was, it would always stand out against the black.

I had learned that I would always be walking the line, playing the middle. I would always be straddling the fence between good and evil, black and white, and trying to find the delicate balance that is difficult to achieve. How could I be evil and malicious enough to earn Voldemort's trust without giving the Aurors, who still doubted my loyalty, any ground to declare me a Death Eater.

As I walked out the door and headed to the Death Eaters meeting, I prayed that I could find the perfect balance to stay alive and avoid Azakaban. However, in a strange way, a part of me was glad to return to Voldemort.

Among the purest black, a light gray could appear white.

~ END ~