Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. JK Rowling, her publishers, and Warner Brothers own Harry Potter.

Some said that earning the Dark Mark – that initiation – required murdering a mudblood, or a muggle, or a blood traitor. Some said it required proving the ability to cast an Unforgiveable curse – whether one or all varied in the telling. Some said it required merely having the right connections, the right blood, the right wealth, the right ability. Some said it was a solemn ceremony, filled with dark ritual and pain. Some said it was a joyous celebration, complete with drunken revelry and lust.

It was none of these things.

Voldemort knew the rumors, had even encouraged them to spread. None of his chosen would truly know what initiation entailed until they themselves experienced it, and by then it would be too late. None of his Marked spoke of it afterwards, except in one simple way, hidden in plain sight, so obvious and yet so overlooked.

Only when a follower had proven himself to Voldemort in some fashion, when he showed himself more than a mere wand in the ranks, a mere source of funds, a mere supporter of the cause, only then would Voldemort consider him for membership into his elite. Only then would he be considered a candidate for the Mark. And by the time a candidate was considered, there was only one requirement left to fulfill.

Voldemort would invite the candidate to dinner. The candidate would sit. Food would appear. And Voldemort would tell him the truth. Every single morsel of food in front of them was poisoned. And then he would direct the candidate to eat.

He would not partake himself, of course. Some of the candidates foolishly took that as a cue to abstain as well. These, he killed without hesitation. This was their final test. If they could not obey his orders, they could not be trusted. If they could not be trusted, they would not leave the room alive.

Some would beg for their lives. These, he gave another chance, but one only. Again, he would instruct them to eat. If they begged again, they, too, would be killed.

A few, more paranoid than the rest, would eat, but also ingest a bezoar hidden in their robes. These, he punished for their presumption but did not kill outright. They had, at least, obeyed. And demonstrated a resourcefulness that bore watching, for either good or ill. Besides, some poisons could not be neutralized by a bezoar. His was one.

And some simply ate. Trembling, pale, terrified to be sure. But still, they ate. Perhaps they did not believe the food was poisoned. Perhaps they knew he would kill them either way. Perhaps they were, in fact, truly loyal.

Anyone who ate the food would be stricken by the toxins. It was a subtle creation, one of his own invention. It would work on any given person only once. Any who survived would be immune to its effects forever after. But he only needed them to be affected once.

The poison was tied to him specifically, to their loyalty to him. Any who sought to betray him – whether that be to the Ministry's fools, or to Dumbledore's Order, or simply to their own ends – would die immediately. No infiltrating spy, no active traitor ever survived past the first bite.

The others, though, would last several minutes before the toxins took their toll. As a boy, Voldemort had heard that men's lives flashed before their eyes as they died. He had since witnessed the truth of that saying. Even as the candidates' bodies convulsed in their death throes, he scanned the thoughts racing through their failing minds, learned their ambitions and their strengths, their secrets and their foibles.

For those who had proven themselves neither spy nor traitor, he waited. Exactly five seconds after they breathed their last breath, after death had claimed their weak and fragile bodies, after all hope seemed lost, Voldemort poured the antidote into their slackened mouths at the same instant that he touched his wand to their inner arms.

A gasp, a shudder, and death relinquished its grasp. His elite would add another to their ranks. No longer a mere candidate, the wizard need only look to his left arm to see the skull and serpent, the Dark Mark granted at the very moment of revival. The symbol etched in flesh served as both honor and as permanent reminder. Their lives were his. They would never forget that they had died for him, but neither would they forget that he and he alone had wrested them back from beyond the veil of death, each and every one.

There were many rumors surrounding initiation. None of them were true. The truth was this: Initiation was always – always – fatal. The name alone should have given it away. And yet no one ever guessed until it was too late.

To join his elite, to earn his Mark, a wizard had to eat of death.

A/N:

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When you stop and think about it, "Death Eaters" is actually a fairly ridiculous name. Are they supposed to be vultures? Some other sort of carrion eaters? It becomes even worse given "Flight of Death" or "Flight from Death" (depending on how you choose to translated Voldemort's name). Are his followers eating him? Are they eating the death that's chasing him? I therefore wrote this fic as an attempt to reconcile the group's name with the terror they inspire.

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