the years of the rat (3/3)
Feb. 11th, 2006 05:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kaydeefalls
Follows part 1 and part 2
Year 7
OED, rat: n. The act of changing one's side.
In the summer before the Marauders' seventh year, the turmoil wracking the wizarding world became too great for even the incredibly insular and overprotected students of Hogwarts to ignore. Lord Voldemort, previously just a shadowy figure tainted with darkness, fully revealed himself at last; it soon became common knowledge that all manner of misdeeds and evildoings dating back to the late 1960s could be attributed to him. Voldemort's followers, who had been given any number of appellations over the years, became publicly known as Death Eaters, and the sinister Dark Mark began materializing in the skies above the homes of their victims. Hogwarts was probably still the safest place in the wizarding world, but the seeds of doubt were sown, and more parents pulled their children out of school in search of safer places to hide from the Death Eaters.
On top of everything else, the Marauders all had parental issues that summer. Sirius's parents formally disowned him, finally – he'd left home late in the previous summer, but it took a while for the situation to become official. James's parents took Sirius in and treated him like a second son, and, in doing so, unwittingly made enemies of the Blacks and several other powerful pureblood families. The Lupins tried to convince Remus to leave Hogwarts, with no success, and nearly drove him mad with their constant worries and nagging. And Peter's parents fled England in terror – his father, a former member of the Slug Club, had only been a few years younger than a certain Tom Riddle and had good reason to fear a number of his former classmates – to settle in a small provincial town in France with Peter's maternal grandparents. They never asked Peter to leave Hogwarts, and he never offered to join them on the continent.
They all more or less lived with the Potters that summer.
*
The Hogwarts staff was grimly determined to carry on business as usual for as long as possible. The new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was a young Auror named Frank Longbottom; his class was immensely popular with the Gryffindor students in particular, and enticed many upperclassmen to seriously consider becoming Aurors themselves. Which, Peter decided, was probably why Dumbledore had hired him. In the theoretical upcoming battle between good and evil, Longbottom was a powerful role model for the 'good' camp.
"All right, you lot, settle down," Longbottom announced to the classroom of Gryffindor and Slytherin seventh-years. "And clear out your desks and chairs. We've got a practical today." 'Practicals' were what Longbottom called lessons that involved actually doing things rather than just studying magical theory.
"Dueling again, professor?" one of Lily Evans's friends asked, smoothing back her hair and giving him a winning smile. All the girls were mad about Longbottom, and the fact that he was a married man didn't seem to slow them down much.
"Not quite, Miss Jacobsen," Longbottom told her. "Today, we're dealing with curses. No, don't roll your eyes like that, Mr. Potter, I'm well aware that you've had extensive instruction on defense against standard curses. But in the thick of battle, there are just some things you won't have time to block – or won't see coming at all. And you won't always have a chance to step aside and try to remove the curse before jumping back into the fray. So you need to learn how to work through the handicap – even try to make it into an advantage, if possible. For example, the Conjunctivitis Curse. Refresher: who can tell me the effects of this curse?"
Lily raised her hand. "It affects the eyes and vision of your target."
"A textbook answer. Yes, this simple curse will seriously impair your sight – the sense many wizards rely on the most. It causes a mild but irritating burning sensation in the eyes, and your vision is reduced to – well, it's like trying to peer through a dense fog. The ocular irritation is a distraction, and the sudden near-blindness can easily prove fatal to a careless witch or wizard. However, being hit by this curse is only as debilitating as you allow it to be. It should not completely remove you from the duel – or battle, as the case may be. Let's try it out. Miss Evans, please, and Mr. Potter." He waved for Lily and James to come into the center of the room. The rest of the students sidled back against the walls, giving them space. Peter watched with interest. "All right, as unlikely as it may be for the Head Boy and Girl to turn against each other—" A few Gryffindors laughed as James flushed bright red. "—Evans, please curse Potter with the Conjunctivitis. Potter, you may not block the curse, but once it hits you, you may do anything in your power to successfully incapacitate Evans. For now, Evans, once you've cursed him, you can only use defensive spells to protect yourself. Later on today, once you've all had a try being cursed, I'll allow standard dueling conditions. On my mark, now, Evans."
She smiled and pointed her wand at James, eyes sparkling with mirth. They weren't quite dating yet, but it was a near thing. "Conjunctivitis ocularis!"
The curse must have hit James squarely, because its effects were immediate. "Bugger!" he groaned, doubling over and rubbing at his eyes with one hand while waving his wand about erratically with the other. "Impedimentus!" The spell was far off its mark; Lily didn't even have to dodge it, although a couple of Slytherins in that general area jumped out of the way.
James blundered around for a few more minutes, shooting off several equally ineffective spells, until Longbottom finally took pity on him and performed the counter-curse. "Not quite as easy as you might think, Potter? Let's give someone else a go." He scanned the room. "Fenwick, come here, please, and Pettigrew."
Benjy was a fairly accomplished duelist; he stepped forward confidently. And Peter was widely known to be a bumbling fool under most circumstances – oddly enough, no one considered the fact that he must have done reasonably well on his OWLs to even be in this advanced class. They probably thought he'd cheated off of Sirius and James.
"All right, Pettigrew, let's see if you can handle the curse better than your friend Potter. Fenwick, if you will be so kind…"
Benjy grinned. "Conjunctivitis ocularis!"
Peter had never been hit by this particular curse before – it wasn't popular in the students' duels, although now he wondered why. The burning in his eyes was more distracting than he'd expected; it took a real effort to resist just curling up and rubbing at them. No, he thought. I won't touch them. It would probably just make it worse. Instead, he tried to open his eyes wide to get as much sight as possible. That didn't help – it just made his eyes water up, and blurred his vision all the worse. The best thing to do, he discovered, was to only open his eyes the tiniest bit and squint. He could just barely make out shapes in the fog. But he had no idea where Benjy was or what he was doing. So how could he…
Think like Wormtail.
Rats have absolutely rotten vision. Not quite as bad as Peter's was right now, perhaps, but pretty damn close. And he certainly spent enough time as Wormtail – the blurriness had never bothered him in rat shape. Granted, the whiskers helped a lot with that, but he didn't have that particular advantage at the moment. So instead – hearing.
He tuned out all his other senses and just listened, hard. Okay, filter out the background noise – there. That was the soft squeak of Benjy's well-shined shoes on the hardwood floor. That was the rustle of his robes. That was the quiet hiss of his breath. And that meant that Benjy was – there. "Expelliarmus!" Peter shouted, taking a long stride in the direction he had just pointed his wand. The gasps of a few classmates, the clatter of wood hitting the floor – it had worked. Another rustle, and Peter jerked out his free hand and grabbed a fistful of cotton robe. He shoved his wand right into the soft fabric. "Petrificus totalis!"
He felt Benjy stiffen and slump, a deadweight. He let go of the boy's robes quickly, before he might accidentally tear them as Benjy fell.
Longbottom spoke the counter-curse, and Peter's vision cleared up instantly. Benjy was lying frozen on the ground, a very surprised look on his face. Longbottom freed him from the petrificus, and Benjy sat up slowly. Suddenly, he grinned widely. "Jolly good one, Peter!"
Almost reflexively, Peter smiled back. Hell, it felt good to do something well for once.
"Well done," Longbottom told him. "And that's a lesson for you all: if you lose one of your natural advantages in a duel – say, your sight – don't dwell on it. Potter was unsuccessful because he didn't know how to respond to the loss of his vision; he kept trying to rub his eyes and make them work again, which was not at all effective. But Pettigrew here learned from his friend's mistake: he didn't waste time trying to see through the curse; instead, he adapted and focused on his other senses to locate his opponent. Furthermore, Fenwick made the mistake of assuming he'd incapacitated Pettigrew with the curse; he underestimated Pettigrew's ability to adapt to the handicap, allowing Pettigrew to easily catch him off guard and disarm him. Now—"
The classroom door opened, and McGonagall entered. She walked up to Longbottom and whispered something urgently into his ear. He nodded. "Pettigrew, Professor McGonagall needs to speak with you."
"Please step outside with me, Peter," McGonagall said. Her eyes were anxious. She was rattled by something; that couldn't be good.
Peter nodded and stuck his wand back in his pocket. Longbottom clapped him on the shoulder. "Good work today, Peter," he said, and there was pity in his eyes.
As he walked out, Peter was jostled by Evan Rosier. For an instant, their eyes met, and Rosier smirked at him.
And as with the incident with Snape last year, Peter just knew.
"Peter," McGonagall said gently, after looking to be sure they were alone in the hall, "it's difficult to tell you this, but…your father was killed last night. We just received word a few minutes ago."
"Death Eaters, right?" Peter asked. He felt strangely devoid of emotion. He'd never been particularly close to his father – his parents, like most people, thought him a rather dull boy – but still. His father. He ought to feel something.
McGonagall had never believed in treating her students like children; she spoke to them all as she would to other adults, even the ones she didn't personally favor. "The Dark Mark was seen in the sky over your grandparents' home, yes. Your mother and grandparents all survived the attack, by the way; it seems your father was alone in the house when they struck."
"I'll bet it was Rosier," Peter said dully. "He and my father were friends in school. Dad used to say that Rosier always thought he should have been Slytherin, because he was the secretive sort. Mum and Dad went to France to hide from him." Should he pretend to cry? No, there was no point; McGonagall already felt sorry enough for him as it was.
"I know," McGonagall said. "I went to school with your father as well. I was a few years ahead of him, but I remember him. A quiet boy, a little odd perhaps, but a good man. The wizarding world will miss him, Peter."
Peter just nodded. The emotion was coming now, but it wasn't sorrow. Anger. His father had been so stupid. He'd been friends with Rosier and a couple of the others who were now Death Eaters; they'd probably asked him to join them, and only killed him because he said no. Stupid. He'd left Peter's mum a widow, Peter without a father, all for what? He hadn't even tried to fight back, had he? No, just let them walk in and kill him. It was a stupid, stupid death. Didn't he know that staying alive was the most important thing?
Peter swore to himself that he would never, ever be as stupid as his father.
*
Peter didn't much feel like going back to class after that. He didn't feel like doing anything, really, so he went back up to the dormitory and just lay on his bed, thinking. He thought about his father, and the Death Eaters. Rosier had done it, had to have. Peter remembered him clearly, that meeting his first year at Platform 9 and ¾. Rosier and Peter's dad had been friends, sure – and then Rosier had betrayed him. Friendship couldn't last in the wizarding world these days, not with Voldemort and his Death Eaters getting bolder and stronger every day, and Peter wasn't the only student who'd been quietly taken aside in the past few weeks. No, there was a war going on, a quiet one still, but a war nonetheless. And when two friends met, the one who stabbed the other in the back was the only one guaranteed survival. Maybe it shouldn't be this way, but it was, and Peter couldn't change the way things were.
Betrayal couldn't be undertaken lightly. Its effects were powerful, and lasting. It had been nearly a year since Sirius's little mistake with Snape, but the rift it had created would never fully heal. Sirius pretended that everything was back to normal – hell, maybe he was oblivious and self-centered enough to think it really was – but Peter just saw the hurt in Remus's eyes, the new scars that cut across his face for all to see. Remus had forgiven Sirius, of course, but he would never really trust him again.
I could use that against them.
The thought came to Peter unbidden. It was the logical progression, after all. Nearly a year ago, he'd walked down the hall with Sirius and James, with Remus scarred and bloody in the infirmary, and had come to a dangerous realization. He'd pushed it back, of course. He hadn't been ready for it yet. But now…
Perhaps the best way to protect yourself is to be the betrayer before you can become the betrayed.
"Peter?" Remus stuck his head in the door. "Oh, there you are! We've been looking for you for ages." His head disappeared for a second. "He's in the dorm!"
"Where else would I be?" Peter asked, as the other three Marauders tumbled into the dormitory.
"Put your shoes on," James ordered. "Dumbledore wants to see us in his office, now."
Peter shoved his feet into his shoes, his body instinctively responding to an order from James before his mind had a chance to catch up. He hated that. "Me, too? Why?"
"He's called a few other seventh-years in as well," Sirius said cheerfully. "Come on."
Peter obediently started following them out, but Remus caught his arm. "What did McGonagall have to say?" he asked quietly.
Peter stuck his hands in his pockets and looked away. "Death Eaters killed my dad last night," he said bluntly. No reason to keep this secret, after all. Remus might even care.
"Oh, God!" Remus said, eyes wide. "Peter, I'm so sorry!"
"It's all right," Peter muttered, inexplicably embarrassed. "We weren't all that close."
"But still – well, your father!"
James, who'd been too far down the stairs to catch the exchange, turned and shot a dark look up at them. "What's going on?"
"Peter's father was murdered by Death Eaters," Remus told him.
"Shit!" James said, startled. "Why didn't you tell us, Pete? That's awful!"
Sirius had also heard the last bit. "I wonder if my cousins had anything to do with it," he muttered darkly. "Cissy's married to that tosser Malfoy now, and I heard that Bella was bonking that Lestrange bloke. Bloody wankers, the lot of them. That's really horrid, Peter."
"Yeah," Peter said.
*
Dumbledore had assembled a number of students in his office; the Marauders were the last to arrive. Also present were nearly all the other Gryffindor seventh-years – including Caradoc, Benjy, and Lily – six Hufflepuffs, and two Ravenclaws. Everyone looked tense. Dumbledore stood behind his desk solemnly, and drew up simple wooden chairs for the Marauders as they entered.
"Now that everyone is here, I will tell you all why I have summoned you today," Dumbledore said quietly. "I have no desire to make the sort of longwinded and virtually meaningless sort of speech favored by the Ministry of late, so I shall keep this brief and simple. There is a war coming. I believe you are all mature and intelligent enough to realize this, despite the Ministry's assertions to the contrary. There is a war coming, and there is a point at which we must all decide which side we are on. If any of you are as yet undecided, or if you plan to flee the country or go into hiding in hopes of escaping it, then you may leave this room now. There is no shame in doing so; several of you have lost relatives and loved ones already in this conflict, and more lives will certainly be lost before the end. If you leave now, you shall go in peace and with dignity."
Dumbledore fell silent for a long moment, looking into the eyes of each student. No one moved.
"Very well," he said. For an instant, an expression like relief passed across his face. "What I am about to tell you all may not be repeated to anyone outside of this room. I have selected you on the basis of your intelligence, your various talents, and above all, your loyalty to friends and family. In a few months, you will be graduating, and the time has come to decide what you will do with the next few years of your lives." He cleared his throat, and stood up a little straighter. "I am a member of an association of witches and wizards who believe that Lord Voldemort represents a serious threat to our society and the world as we know it, and are willing to fight for that belief. We believe that the only possible successful resistance is an organized one, and every individual in our order has his or her own valuable skills and knowledge. Alone, we stand no chance against Voldemort and his Death Eaters; together, we may be a force to be reckoned with. Our numbers are small, but growing. For as long as Hogwarts continues training children, every year I will approach certain seventh-year students with the same proposition I extend to you all: join us. We have a long and extremely difficult battle ahead of us. Not all will survive it; perhaps none of us will. But it is our only chance. You are our future. You are our strongest hope that there will be a future."
He gestured to a tattered old book on his desk.
"This is a Portkey. It will take us to an undisclosed location in the heart of London – not our headquarters, incidentally. But there you can meet the other members of this group, and speak with them, and decide whether or not you are willing to join us." He smiled wryly. "Of course, I hope that you understand that those of you who decide against it will have your memories modified slightly, as a safety precaution."
A couple of student giggled a little at this, but no one was leaving yet. Interesting, Peter thought, and wondered if perhaps this little organization of Dumbledore's did stand a chance against the Death Eaters. He went up to the desk and touched the Portkey, like everyone else, and found himself in a smallish, shabby room. The window curtains were drawn, so they couldn't see where they were, but he could hear traffic sounds outside. A flat in Muggle London, then. Probably.
"Welcome," Dumbledore said, once they were all assembled, "to the Order of the Phoenix."
Peter looked around in disbelief. The shabby room was filled with people, yes – but it wasn't a particularly large room, so crowding it wasn't difficult. Longbottom and his wife were there, along with a few other Aurors, easily identifiable by the professional cut of their robes and the sharp intelligence in their eyes. The rest were a motley assortment of ragtag wizards – one or two looked actually dangerous, but most just appeared unkempt and vaguely eccentric.
There were fewer than thirty of them in all, not counting Peter and the other seventh-year students.
This is it? Peter thought. These are the wizards who think they can save the world? A handful of misfits and untrained students?
And as Dumbledore began introducing the students to the older members of the Order, Peter knew.
They didn't stand a chance. The Dark Lord's forces far surpassed this. He would crush each and every one of them like bugs.
They were all going to die.
And above all else, Peter wanted to survive.
*
They used another Portkey to get back to Hogwarts just before lights out, and split up to return to their respective House common rooms. James and Lily had some Head Boy and Girl duties to attend to, and some of the other Gryffindors were still engaged in a long, animated conversation with a couple of Hufflepuffs. Peter, Remus, Sirius, and Caradoc headed off back to Gryffindor Tower on their own.
"Can you imagine?" Caradoc said. "A chance to do something important after graduation. Maybe now I can convince my mum that there are practical applications to being a Cursebreaker."
"Maybe Dumbledore can get me a real job," Remus said wistfully. "I used to think it was the Ministry or nothing. And, well…" He didn't finish the thought. Werewolves were forbidden positions with the Ministry of Magic, and several other lines of work besides.
Sirius grinned and threw his arms around Remus and Peter. "Ready to save the world, lads?"
Peter pulled away. "You don't get it, do you?" he said coldly. The others stopped walking and looked at him in surprise.
"What do you mean?" Remus asked.
"You think this is all some sort of game," Peter said. "Save the world, beat up the bad guys, get the glory, right?" They didn't respond. Peter wrinkled his nose in disgust. "You idiots. Haven't you been paying attention? This is war. People are dying. We're up against a power the likes of which have never been seen before, ever. And we don't know how to win. Did you see Dumbledore's face back there? He's scared. He doesn't know what he's doing. Why else would he recruit a bunch of untrained kids?"
"Scared, Peter?" Sirius asked quietly.
"You're damn right I'm scared," Peter snapped.
For a second, they just looked at each other. Finally, Sirius laughed. "Poor Peter," he said. "Where's your Gryffindor courage, old chap?" He shook his head with mock sadness. "You know, sometimes I wonder if you were sorted into the right house."
Remus and Caradoc laughed, and life snapped back to normal.
Peter forced a grin and went along with them, but a coldness settled in the pit of his stomach. Well, he had tried, hadn't he? And they hadn't listened. They never listened to him. They never would. Fine, then. It would be their loss, in the end.
He sometimes wondered if he really had fooled the Sorting Hat, or if his audacity in thinking he could was a prime example of the sort of courageous idiocy so prized by Gryffindors. Well, there was also a dark sort of courage in standing up to your closest friends, choosing sides against them, even betraying them if necessary. It takes courage to go against all you've been taught and raised to believe in.
And when it came down to it, Peter had that sort of courage in abundance.
*
He ran into Sirius's younger brother by accident, really. They'd both been given detention by Filch for completely different reasons, but he'd lumped the two of them together because he assumed that, being from Gryffindor and Slytherin, they would of course hate each other, and that made their punishment all the more delicious.
They spent the first fifteen minutes silently scrubbing (no magic!) all of the ancient torture devices in a small dungeon previously unknown to students – not even the Marauders, which irked Peter somewhat.
"So, what're you in for?" Peter finally asked.
Regulus glared at him. "He found me on the third floor after lights-out," he muttered sullenly.
"That's it?" Peter scoffed. "You're a fifth year, aren't you? You should know better than to be caught."
"Well, what'd you do, then?" Regulus demanded, eyes flaring.
"Just taking the fall for another one of your brother's lousy ideas," Peter said. He made no attempt to keep the bitterness out of his voice. Actually, he played it up a bit.
Regulus smiled grimly. "I know the feeling. I'm glad he's got you to blame these days. It's nice being the golden boy at home, now that he's not around to tarnish my reputation anymore."
"Take him back," Peter said. "I don't want him."
There was a long pause. Peter rubbed at an unidentifiable spiky thing vigorously, well aware that Regulus was sizing him up.
"So what do you want, then, Pettigrew?" Regulus asked, a strangely predatory glint in his eyes. He was young yet, and fairly unimportant in the scheme of things, but he had powerful relatives. This was it.
It wasn't that Peter wanted to be evil. He just wanted to stay alive.
"There's a war coming," Peter said simply. "It's already begun. I just want to survive it. I think your brother's chosen the wrong side, and I don't want to make the same mistake." He appraised Regulus coolly. "And you?"
Regulus smiled. "There's someone I think you should meet."
The Years of the Rat
OED, rat: v. To desert one's party, side, or cause, esp. in politics; to go over as a deserter; to turn traitor. Also, in Criminals' slang, to inform.
After graduating from Hogwarts, the days and months and years started blending into one another. Peter spent more and more time as Wormtail, and rats have a very narrow sense of time. What was is past and unimportant; the future stretches no farther than a few more minutes and may not really exist. There's just now, and that's all that matters.
The longer Peter spent in rat form, the more rat-like his thought processes became. The past was in the past and the details were hazy, and the future promised to be more of the same. He didn't look for an end to the war (and war it really was now) or hope for future glories and riches. He didn't even notice that he was being drawn deeper and deeper into the Death Eaters' plots, that he was passing more and more information to the Dark Lord. He just survived, and survival is a moment-to-moment thing.
Sometimes entire days passed as Wormtail, and he scarcely noticed.
*
He had to buy a new dress robe for James and Lily's wedding; he wasn't sure what happened to his old one. Maybe it got too small or too tattered and he'd thrown it out. Maybe he'd lost it in one of his numerous moves (he'd lived in five different flats in London over the past year, driven by a deep-seated paranoia that might be Wormtail's fault or might be related to the whole double-agent game he was playing). Or maybe he never really had one. That was always a possibility. It wasn't important enough to remember.
Being Peter in the company of other people always sharpened his mind somewhat, reminded him who he was and where he came from and what he was doing. He spent too much time alone or just observing others as Wormtail. The rat was useful for his work, both for the Order and the Death Eaters. In the Order, he was a sort of messenger, delivering communications too sensitive for owl post, but whenever he delivered a message he then doubled back in rat form to watch its receiver's response. Along the way, Peter learned the contents of most of the messages he carried, and Voldemort found that information very useful indeed.
But it meant a hell of a lot of time as a rat, and not much as human. It was good to just be Peter sometimes; even Voldemort and the handful of Death Eaters who knew that Peter reported to him usually called him Wormtail.
There were a lot of wizards and witches getting married these days; Peter supposed that with the ongoing war growing more dangerous every day, people tried to live for the moment. Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we may die, and the Potter wedding was the living example of that particular adage.
"Peter!" Sirius cried gaily, stumbling across the room to throw an arm around Peter's shoulders. "You aren't nearly plastered enough yet! Have a firewhisky! Have twelve!"
"That's all right," Peter replied absently. "You're drunk enough for both of us." His mind was elsewhere; he was watching James and Lily dance together. James wasn't much of dancer, but he looked well enough today, pressed up against Lily, moving as if he were just an extension of her body – which was true enough now, Peter supposed. That relationship was like a rock, and they'd likely be the most effective married team the Order had, along with the Longbottoms. He'd consider it, but Peter knew he'd never be able to drive a wedge between them. Too bad. His only orders from Voldemort, apart from spying, were to do everything in his ability to splinter the Order from within. He couldn't do much without compromising himself, but over time… Not the Potters, though. To strong a foundation to crack.
But within the Marauders themselves, well, he had a couple of ideas. Too early to make a real move yet, though.
Yeah, spending time as Peter definitely woke his brain up again. He should do this more often.
Sirius followed Peter's gaze. "They're so right together," he mumbled, almost morosely. Sirius's moods were always mercurial, and the alcohol certainly helped things along. "I wish I could be that right with someone."
Discord within the ranks? Sirius now had Peter's undivided attention. "What about Remus? Aren't you two—"
Sirius snorted in a very canine fashion. "We're no James and Lily, that's for sure."
"You've got a flat together."
"Sometimes I think the only reason he hasn't found his own place is because he can't afford it," Sirius complained. "I don't know for sure; he doesn't talk to me about those things. I never realized how secretive he was before."
Peter raised an eyebrow. "Remus? Secretive? You don't say."
Sirius waved his hand dismissively. "You know what I mean. He's supposed to trust me."
You just don't get it, do you? Peter thought incredulously. All this time, and Sirius still thought the incident sixth year hadn't changed anything? Idiot.
Yeah, Peter could use this.
"Maybe I should find a nice girl somewhere," Sirius rambled on philosophically, downing another drink. "Girls are supposed to talk about their feelings and tell secrets and stuff, right? And they're nice. They're soft and they smell nice. Do you like girls, Peter?"
"Er, yes, they're lovely." Peter didn't much care about romance, one way or another. He'd been with a girl or two, sure, to see what it was like. It was nice enough, but unnecessary. Peter didn't bother much with unnecessary things these days.
"A girl would be nice," Sirius decided, then changed his mind. "Except the talking and feelings and things might get annoying after a while. So maybe not."
Peter wondered what would happen if Remus were to come over now, with Sirius in this mood. It might be entertaining, at least. But no, Remus was on the other side of the tent the Potters had set up for the wedding and reception, and it wasn't quite worth the effort of fetching him.
Instead, he amused himself by playing Good Friend to Sirius, which included listening to all his drunken confessions and helping him find his way home when he had Had Enough. It didn't take long to get to that stage, which was good, because it gave Peter an excuse to say his goodbyes and get out of there while the party was still raging. After depositing Sirius in his flat, Peter scurried off to do…well, Wormtail business.
Late that night, on their way home from the wedding party, James's parents were attacked and killed by a small group of Death Eaters, including Regulus Black. Regulus was Peter's usual contact; he held a similar position among the Death Eaters to Peter's in the Order, and he relayed messages that were too sensitive for more normal channels – like information from spies.
Peter was never sure exactly why the elder Mr. and Mrs. Potter were murdered; it didn't seem to have all that much strategic importance. But the Death Eaters weren't very good at separating business from personal, and the Black family had never forgiven the Potters for taking Sirius in.
*
Peter next met Regulus two days later, in a narrow alley in one of London's poorer neighborhoods. "You seem to have put my information to good use," he commented mildly. "Did the Dark Lord give the order to kill the Potters, or did you actually take some initiative on your own?"
Regulus seemed uncharacteristically on edge. "Bella ordered it."
"I should have known. It was a great blow to her pride when the Potters seduced Sirius away, wasn't it?"
"You have information for me?" Regulus asked crossly.
Peter smiled and pulled a thin roll of parchment out of his robes. "Your first killing, right? How did you like it?"
"They were blood traitors, like my brother," Regulus replied shortly. "They deserved to die."
"Of course, but that wasn't my question. You were supposed to tell me how much you enjoyed it, like all Death Eaters do. My pay, if you please."
Regulus shoved a small cloth bag full of coins at him. Another benefit to being on the dark side: while the Order couldn't afford to pay its members regular wages, the Death Eaters could. "Take it and go," Regulus spat. "I'll not have my loyalties questioned by a rat." He turned and Disapparated, rather abruptly.
Peter shook his head in amusement. They all still thought calling him a rat was an insult.
*
He avoided meeting directly with Voldemort as much as possible. Voldemort scared the shit out of him. Better to deal with Regulus, that haughty scion of the Black family, so like Sirius would have been without James. Proud, lonely, and not as strong as he thought he was. Peter pitied him.
He'd even rather face Bellatrix than the Dark Lord, because she was scary and possibly deranged but at least she still cared what other people thought of her, even if 'other people' only really meant Voldemort and possibly her husband. But still. Better than Voldemort, who just didn't fucking care about anyone but himself. Bella was less powerful than Voldemort, too. Obviously.
So he avoided meeting directly with Voldemort as much as possible.
It wasn't always possible, of course, but Peter didn't like to dwell on those encounters.
*
Peter measured time in pregnancies. It seemed like half the female population of the wizarding world decided to get pregnant at around the same time, over the course of a couple of years after the Marauders' graduation. He wondered which of these unborn children would grow up to be the key players of their generation. Who would be the leaders, the followers, the outcasts, the miscreants? Who would survive to adulthood, and who would die in infancy?
He measured time in deaths. Of Order members, mostly, if only because he knew them all by name, while the vast majority of the Death Eaters were only shadowy figures. The deaths began adding up in earnest just as all the babies were being born. He wondered if Voldemort had planned it that way. Probably just coincidence.
He measured time in Order plans foiled through his information, in Order members wounded and killed because of a note he had made to this or that parchment, handed over to Regulus in due course.
He measured time in the eyes of the people who realized they'd been betrayed, too late. There was no time left for them, none at all. He only dealt a handful of deaths personally, and he remembered each one vividly. Benjy Fenwick's was the worst or the best, depending on how you looked at it. Peter incapacitated him much the same way as in that Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson, except that standard dueling conditions no longer applied. Only tiny bits of Benjy were ever found; Peter filed that particular spell in the back of his mind as a particularly good way to make someone disappear – or seem to disappear.
But most of the time, Peter didn't bother measuring time at all.
*
One bitterly cold winter's day, Regulus didn't meet Peter at the appointed time. Wormtail waited there for nearly an hour, curled up in a small pile of litter, but Regulus didn't show. Because Peter's information was never passed along, a small group of Death Eaters walked straight into an ambush organized and led by Sirius. Peter idly wondered if Regulus and Sirius were somehow working together, but knew it was probably just ironic coincidence that one brother's failure led directly to the other's success.
A week later, Peter learned that Regulus was dead. He didn't tell Sirius. It took a while for the information to get through the Order's usual channels, but they eventually heard the news. Apparently, Regulus had tried to back out, and Voldemort issued a license to kill immediately – which amused Peter no end. It sure is rotten luck to have your communications compromised, isn't it? Not that he ever explained the irony to anyone. He somehow doubted that anyone else would get the joke.
Sirius responded to Regulus's death somewhat strangely. He just laughed, that short, barking laugh ringing throughout his flat when he was told. Peter wondered if Sirius was coming slightly unhinged.
He voiced this concern to Remus alone, and Remus took it in exactly the intended way. The already-damaged trust between Moony and Padfoot eroded just a little bit more.
*
It was almost childishly easy to splinter Remus out of the group. Remus had always been a loner by nature, forced into habits of secrecy and distrust by the disease incurred in childhood. He'd always been desperately lonely for true friendship, and clung to it when he thought he had it, but his greatest fear was the betrayal of that friendship; Peter hadn't forgotten the look in Remus's eyes after the Snape incident. And Peter exploited that fear for all it was worth, gradually but thoroughly. A word or two here, a hint there… It was like a game for Peter, a master game of chess, stretched out so slowly and languorously that you hardly realized the pieces were moving until – checkmate. He'd learned that game from Caradoc and Benjy, and though he hadn't appreciated it at the time, he was certainly putting it to good use now.
Remus kept right on trusting Peter, of course. That was the beauty of it. Remus needed to trust someone, after all, and the pair of them had never entirely managed to puncture the Best Friend Bubble of James and Sirius's relationship.
They don't appreciate you, Peter told him.
They don't trust you like they should.
It's the werewolf thing, I know better but they don't, pureblood prejudices, you know.
It's like the thing with Snape, sometimes they just don't think, but that's all it takes.
I trust you, though, Remus. I'll always be here for you.
So easy, like following a script. Peter might have felt guilty about it, but by pushing Remus away from the other Marauders – and, by extension, the Order – he was probably actually pushing Remus out of harm's way, ensuring his survival. And in the end, Remus would know how to save himself, instinctively, like a frightened animal. Peter liked that about Remus. They were both survivors.
*
Just before little Harry's first birthday – and when had he gotten so big? Peter really needed to keep better track of time – Dumbledore sent Remus out on a secret mission of sorts. Remus was to seek out the other marginalized Dark creatures in the wizarding world, from other werewolves to vampires and the like, and feel them out. Learn if any of the neutral ones might be amenable to the Order, and how many had already gone over to Voldemort's camp. Peter only learned of the mission because he was the person handling the dispatches about it, and would (if necessary) deliver reports directly from Remus to Dumbledore when, for whatever reason, Remus couldn't go in person.
No one else, not even other Order members, not even Sirius, knew what Remus was supposed to be up to.
It was absolutely perfect. Remus was now vanishing for days, even a week or two at a time, and no one but Peter knew where he was or what he was doing. He missed the quiet little birthday party Lily and James had for Harry. He missed Order meetings. He made Sirius and James more suspicious of him than Peter could have ever managed on his own.
The final nail in the coffin, as it were, was also inadvertently of Remus's own devising. He owled Peter one night in early October to meet him in a seedy pub in Liverpool. He said he had an urgent message for Dumbledore. Peter didn't know why Remus couldn't have Apparated back to London himself; he'd never find out, and didn't really care.
"So what's all this about?" Peter asked, joining Remus at an isolated booth in a dark corner of the pub.
Remus pulled out a roll of parchment. "This needs to get to Dumbledore, as soon as possible. I'm sorry I can't check in myself, but I'm involved in a…situation here, and I can't get out just yet."
Peter took it and stuck it in his robes. "So what's in the report?" Remus visibly hesitated. "Come on, you hauled my arse out of bed at one in the morning to go halfway across England to play delivery boy, and I bloody well want a hint as to why." He did overtired and petulant well.
Remus sighed and stared into his untouched pint. "As of last night, the entire werewolf population of England is officially compromised. You-Know-Who finally got his hands on the Werewolf Registry. I assume someone in the Ministry is working directly for him – probably several people. At any rate, he knows exactly who we all are now – and where we are, and where our families are – and can turn us – or kill us – one by one, as he so chooses." He ran a hand through his hair. He looked as though he'd aged several years in the past month or so. "Werewolves are officially not amenable to the Order now."
"What about you?" Peter asked, feigning surprise. It was bound to happen sooner or later.
Remus just shrugged wearily
"You should leave!" Peter told him. "Get out of the country, get out of Europe. You-Know-Who isn't all-powerful yet, there must be somewhere—"
"I have arrangements in place, if I so choose," Remus told him quietly, and wouldn't say another word on the subject.
*
It couldn't have worked out better if Peter had planned it. Rather than go directly to Dumbledore, he went straight up to the flat Sirius and Remus shared, and spent nearly ten minutes banging on the door before Sirius opened it.
"What the fuck," Sirius snarled – rather mildly, Peter thought, given the circumstances.
"Message," Peter said, already shifting his manner of speech into 'babbling' mode. "I've got a message and I'm supposed to deliver it straight to Dumbledore, only I stopped to have a look and don't give me that look, Sirius, I had to, you see, because it concerns Remus and—"
Sirius held up a hand for silence. He yanked Peter fully inside the flat and shut the door, then accioed his wand and cast a silencing spell on the flat. "Okay. You're going to speak more slowly, Peter, and you're bloody well going to make sense or I'll shove my wand up your arse."
Peter pulled the parchment out of his robes. "It's about werewolves," he said. "I shouldn't be showing it to you, but…just read it."
After a moment, Sirius nodded and took the parchment, unrolling it. As he skimmed its contents, his brow furrowed. "Who gave you this?"
Peter hedged deliberately, shifting his weight. "I really, really shouldn't be telling you this…"
"Cut the crap, Peter. You've broken enough rules already, just take the next step."
You have no idea, Peter thought. "We have…someone in place. In northern England. He has certain…contacts. I deliver messages from him to Dumbledore." Good old Remus and his eminent professionalism; he never signed his name to any of his reports. "Normally I don't read them, I swear, only this time something he said made me wonder, so…"
"Right. Thank you." Sirius read the document over again, more carefully. "Peter, this is…I need to show this to James."
"You can't!" Peter protested. "I've got to give it to Dumbledore straightaway, I shouldn't have even—"
"It concerns Remus, and what concerns him concerns the rest of the Marauders, right? James needs to know."
Peter made a great show of reluctance. "I suppose I could show it to him myself…if you'll tell me where they are this week?" James and Lily currently evaded Voldemort not so much by hiding as by moving around fairly constantly. Harder to hit a moving target, and all that. Peter knew they thought they'd found a good permanent place to hide, but they hadn't settled there yet. Once they did…well, there were always ways of getting to them, he supposed, although at the moment he wasn't sure just how. He'd keep working on that.
Sirius shook his head firmly. Ah, well, it was worth a try. "Sorry, Peter. It's not that I don't trust you, you know. It's just that the fewer people who know this, the better."
"Right," Peter sighed. "Well, I suppose I could let you hold on to the parchment for a little while. But I need it back by tomorrow night, at the absolute latest. Seriously. Promise?"
"No problem," Sirius said, and the funny thing was, he'd probably be true to his word.
"You don't think…" Peter started, with just the right amount of hesitance. "I mean, the report. Remus wouldn't really turn, would he?"
Sirius glanced down at the parchment grimly. "He might not think he has a choice."
Perfect.
Even if Peter actually got into a little bit of trouble for this – unlikely, since he had a number of excellent excuses up his sleeve – it was worth it. Remus was out. Now he just had to work on driving a wedge between James and Sirius, which would be a lot harder.
But as it turned out, he wouldn't have to do much of anything.
*
Several weeks passed. Remus vanished – for good, probably, Peter thought. He wondered what Remus's 'arrangements' had been. Whatever they were, they had been good ones, and Voldemort soon lost what little interest he'd had in that particular werewolf.
And one sunny afternoon in late October, Peter met Sirius, James, and Lily in a public library – in the Restricted Section, appropriately enough. The perfect place for some good old fashioned marauding.
"Where's Harry?" Peter asked, by way of greeting.
James and Lily exchanged a look. "One of our new Muggle neighbors is watching him," Lily said.
Peter smiled wryly. "I suppose you can't tell me where. Is this goodbye, then?"
"No," James said. "Actually, it's…well, we need to perform the Fidelius Charm. Tonight, if possible."
Peter glanced at Sirius.
"Not with me," Sirius said gruffly. "I know, we've planned it this way for ages, I'm the boy's bloody godfather, but…"
"Too obvious," James said bluntly. "Especially if Remus is compromised. It's just a risk we can't afford to take."
"Besides," Sirius added, "if there really is a spy within the Order, he or she will probably come after me, and that's our best chance of identifying them."
Peter's head swam. He didn't have to fake his befuddlement this time. "So…what you're saying is…?"
Lily smiled gently at him. "Peter, would you be willing to be our Secret Keeper?"
No. They can't possibly be this stupid, can they? "Are you taking the piss?"
Sirius sighed, leaning against a bookshelf. "Just say yes, Pete. We know you'd never let us down."
"It's his decision," James said, never taking his eyes off Peter.
Well, there really was only one thing to do, wasn't there? "I'd be honored."
He'd never thought it would end up being this easy. Never in a million years.
*
"I bring good tidings, my Lord. The very best. That's why I had to deliver the news personally."
"Well?"
"I know where the Potters are."
*
When it all went wrong, Peter didn't question it. He didn't refuse to believe the rumors, like some Death Eaters, or engage in heated debates as towhy. He just got the hell out of there before anyone else could remember exactly who had directed the Dark Lord to Godric's Hollow.
He didn't bother returning to his flat. He had nothing but the robes on his back and his wand in his pocket, and didn't care. There was no question of ever living in the wizarding world again. He had gambled it all, and lost, and it was only a matter of who would kill him first – the Order or the Death Eaters. He'd have to go into hiding, deep hiding, as Wormtail, and probably never take human form again. Even then, he would never be really safe. A couple of the Death Eaters knew his rat shape, would be able to track him. As would Sirius…
Sirius.
It was all so obvious, wasn't it? Sirius was the only Order member who knew that Peter had been the Potters' Secret Keeper. But everyone else thought it had been Sirius. And Peter knew Sirius. The odds were a hundred to one against that Sirius would actually stop to tell anyone, by the way, it was Peter who did it. No, he'd want revenge. He'd want to kill Peter with his own hands, then tell the story afterwards. And he was a fucking genius with tracking spells, Marauder's Map or no. So he'd come straight for Peter, and wouldn't stop until…
…until Peter was dead.
So Peter would die. And Sirius would probably be hurled into Azkaban without any questions asked, and no one would believe that he hadn't been the Secret Keeper because the only people who could support his story were dead.
And the remaining Death Eaters wouldn't bother hunting down a dead rat.
*
Peter knew that magic was primarily about intent, and if he wanted something badly enough, he could make it happen. He knew that there needn't be an extant spell for what he planned, so long as he had enough power and control over the magic. And the manner of Lily's death had taught him that the greater the personal sacrifice, the more powerful the effect.
So he planned it all perfectly. He waited for Sirius in the bustling street. His hands were hidden under his very loose robes, his left hand delicately tickling the base of his finger with a silver dagger. No wand today; he must appear to be totally defenseless. Besides, what use has a rat for a wand?
And, right on cue, Sirius came.
"How could you, Sirius?" Peter screamed. Heads turned. Muggles stared. Sirius made a low growling noise in the back of his throat. "How could you betray James and Lily? You killed them!"
Come on, you git, he thought, raise your bloody wand.
Sirius advanced upon him, eyes murderous. He raised his wand.
Calmly, Peter slipped the dagger through flesh and bone. He didn't feel a thing. His finger fell to the ground, and the world exploded around him.
Peter smiled, slipping into his rat form like a familiar robe, and scurried away.
Year 7
OED, rat: n. The act of changing one's side.
In the summer before the Marauders' seventh year, the turmoil wracking the wizarding world became too great for even the incredibly insular and overprotected students of Hogwarts to ignore. Lord Voldemort, previously just a shadowy figure tainted with darkness, fully revealed himself at last; it soon became common knowledge that all manner of misdeeds and evildoings dating back to the late 1960s could be attributed to him. Voldemort's followers, who had been given any number of appellations over the years, became publicly known as Death Eaters, and the sinister Dark Mark began materializing in the skies above the homes of their victims. Hogwarts was probably still the safest place in the wizarding world, but the seeds of doubt were sown, and more parents pulled their children out of school in search of safer places to hide from the Death Eaters.
On top of everything else, the Marauders all had parental issues that summer. Sirius's parents formally disowned him, finally – he'd left home late in the previous summer, but it took a while for the situation to become official. James's parents took Sirius in and treated him like a second son, and, in doing so, unwittingly made enemies of the Blacks and several other powerful pureblood families. The Lupins tried to convince Remus to leave Hogwarts, with no success, and nearly drove him mad with their constant worries and nagging. And Peter's parents fled England in terror – his father, a former member of the Slug Club, had only been a few years younger than a certain Tom Riddle and had good reason to fear a number of his former classmates – to settle in a small provincial town in France with Peter's maternal grandparents. They never asked Peter to leave Hogwarts, and he never offered to join them on the continent.
They all more or less lived with the Potters that summer.
The Hogwarts staff was grimly determined to carry on business as usual for as long as possible. The new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was a young Auror named Frank Longbottom; his class was immensely popular with the Gryffindor students in particular, and enticed many upperclassmen to seriously consider becoming Aurors themselves. Which, Peter decided, was probably why Dumbledore had hired him. In the theoretical upcoming battle between good and evil, Longbottom was a powerful role model for the 'good' camp.
"All right, you lot, settle down," Longbottom announced to the classroom of Gryffindor and Slytherin seventh-years. "And clear out your desks and chairs. We've got a practical today." 'Practicals' were what Longbottom called lessons that involved actually doing things rather than just studying magical theory.
"Dueling again, professor?" one of Lily Evans's friends asked, smoothing back her hair and giving him a winning smile. All the girls were mad about Longbottom, and the fact that he was a married man didn't seem to slow them down much.
"Not quite, Miss Jacobsen," Longbottom told her. "Today, we're dealing with curses. No, don't roll your eyes like that, Mr. Potter, I'm well aware that you've had extensive instruction on defense against standard curses. But in the thick of battle, there are just some things you won't have time to block – or won't see coming at all. And you won't always have a chance to step aside and try to remove the curse before jumping back into the fray. So you need to learn how to work through the handicap – even try to make it into an advantage, if possible. For example, the Conjunctivitis Curse. Refresher: who can tell me the effects of this curse?"
Lily raised her hand. "It affects the eyes and vision of your target."
"A textbook answer. Yes, this simple curse will seriously impair your sight – the sense many wizards rely on the most. It causes a mild but irritating burning sensation in the eyes, and your vision is reduced to – well, it's like trying to peer through a dense fog. The ocular irritation is a distraction, and the sudden near-blindness can easily prove fatal to a careless witch or wizard. However, being hit by this curse is only as debilitating as you allow it to be. It should not completely remove you from the duel – or battle, as the case may be. Let's try it out. Miss Evans, please, and Mr. Potter." He waved for Lily and James to come into the center of the room. The rest of the students sidled back against the walls, giving them space. Peter watched with interest. "All right, as unlikely as it may be for the Head Boy and Girl to turn against each other—" A few Gryffindors laughed as James flushed bright red. "—Evans, please curse Potter with the Conjunctivitis. Potter, you may not block the curse, but once it hits you, you may do anything in your power to successfully incapacitate Evans. For now, Evans, once you've cursed him, you can only use defensive spells to protect yourself. Later on today, once you've all had a try being cursed, I'll allow standard dueling conditions. On my mark, now, Evans."
She smiled and pointed her wand at James, eyes sparkling with mirth. They weren't quite dating yet, but it was a near thing. "Conjunctivitis ocularis!"
The curse must have hit James squarely, because its effects were immediate. "Bugger!" he groaned, doubling over and rubbing at his eyes with one hand while waving his wand about erratically with the other. "Impedimentus!" The spell was far off its mark; Lily didn't even have to dodge it, although a couple of Slytherins in that general area jumped out of the way.
James blundered around for a few more minutes, shooting off several equally ineffective spells, until Longbottom finally took pity on him and performed the counter-curse. "Not quite as easy as you might think, Potter? Let's give someone else a go." He scanned the room. "Fenwick, come here, please, and Pettigrew."
Benjy was a fairly accomplished duelist; he stepped forward confidently. And Peter was widely known to be a bumbling fool under most circumstances – oddly enough, no one considered the fact that he must have done reasonably well on his OWLs to even be in this advanced class. They probably thought he'd cheated off of Sirius and James.
"All right, Pettigrew, let's see if you can handle the curse better than your friend Potter. Fenwick, if you will be so kind…"
Benjy grinned. "Conjunctivitis ocularis!"
Peter had never been hit by this particular curse before – it wasn't popular in the students' duels, although now he wondered why. The burning in his eyes was more distracting than he'd expected; it took a real effort to resist just curling up and rubbing at them. No, he thought. I won't touch them. It would probably just make it worse. Instead, he tried to open his eyes wide to get as much sight as possible. That didn't help – it just made his eyes water up, and blurred his vision all the worse. The best thing to do, he discovered, was to only open his eyes the tiniest bit and squint. He could just barely make out shapes in the fog. But he had no idea where Benjy was or what he was doing. So how could he…
Think like Wormtail.
Rats have absolutely rotten vision. Not quite as bad as Peter's was right now, perhaps, but pretty damn close. And he certainly spent enough time as Wormtail – the blurriness had never bothered him in rat shape. Granted, the whiskers helped a lot with that, but he didn't have that particular advantage at the moment. So instead – hearing.
He tuned out all his other senses and just listened, hard. Okay, filter out the background noise – there. That was the soft squeak of Benjy's well-shined shoes on the hardwood floor. That was the rustle of his robes. That was the quiet hiss of his breath. And that meant that Benjy was – there. "Expelliarmus!" Peter shouted, taking a long stride in the direction he had just pointed his wand. The gasps of a few classmates, the clatter of wood hitting the floor – it had worked. Another rustle, and Peter jerked out his free hand and grabbed a fistful of cotton robe. He shoved his wand right into the soft fabric. "Petrificus totalis!"
He felt Benjy stiffen and slump, a deadweight. He let go of the boy's robes quickly, before he might accidentally tear them as Benjy fell.
Longbottom spoke the counter-curse, and Peter's vision cleared up instantly. Benjy was lying frozen on the ground, a very surprised look on his face. Longbottom freed him from the petrificus, and Benjy sat up slowly. Suddenly, he grinned widely. "Jolly good one, Peter!"
Almost reflexively, Peter smiled back. Hell, it felt good to do something well for once.
"Well done," Longbottom told him. "And that's a lesson for you all: if you lose one of your natural advantages in a duel – say, your sight – don't dwell on it. Potter was unsuccessful because he didn't know how to respond to the loss of his vision; he kept trying to rub his eyes and make them work again, which was not at all effective. But Pettigrew here learned from his friend's mistake: he didn't waste time trying to see through the curse; instead, he adapted and focused on his other senses to locate his opponent. Furthermore, Fenwick made the mistake of assuming he'd incapacitated Pettigrew with the curse; he underestimated Pettigrew's ability to adapt to the handicap, allowing Pettigrew to easily catch him off guard and disarm him. Now—"
The classroom door opened, and McGonagall entered. She walked up to Longbottom and whispered something urgently into his ear. He nodded. "Pettigrew, Professor McGonagall needs to speak with you."
"Please step outside with me, Peter," McGonagall said. Her eyes were anxious. She was rattled by something; that couldn't be good.
Peter nodded and stuck his wand back in his pocket. Longbottom clapped him on the shoulder. "Good work today, Peter," he said, and there was pity in his eyes.
As he walked out, Peter was jostled by Evan Rosier. For an instant, their eyes met, and Rosier smirked at him.
And as with the incident with Snape last year, Peter just knew.
"Peter," McGonagall said gently, after looking to be sure they were alone in the hall, "it's difficult to tell you this, but…your father was killed last night. We just received word a few minutes ago."
"Death Eaters, right?" Peter asked. He felt strangely devoid of emotion. He'd never been particularly close to his father – his parents, like most people, thought him a rather dull boy – but still. His father. He ought to feel something.
McGonagall had never believed in treating her students like children; she spoke to them all as she would to other adults, even the ones she didn't personally favor. "The Dark Mark was seen in the sky over your grandparents' home, yes. Your mother and grandparents all survived the attack, by the way; it seems your father was alone in the house when they struck."
"I'll bet it was Rosier," Peter said dully. "He and my father were friends in school. Dad used to say that Rosier always thought he should have been Slytherin, because he was the secretive sort. Mum and Dad went to France to hide from him." Should he pretend to cry? No, there was no point; McGonagall already felt sorry enough for him as it was.
"I know," McGonagall said. "I went to school with your father as well. I was a few years ahead of him, but I remember him. A quiet boy, a little odd perhaps, but a good man. The wizarding world will miss him, Peter."
Peter just nodded. The emotion was coming now, but it wasn't sorrow. Anger. His father had been so stupid. He'd been friends with Rosier and a couple of the others who were now Death Eaters; they'd probably asked him to join them, and only killed him because he said no. Stupid. He'd left Peter's mum a widow, Peter without a father, all for what? He hadn't even tried to fight back, had he? No, just let them walk in and kill him. It was a stupid, stupid death. Didn't he know that staying alive was the most important thing?
Peter swore to himself that he would never, ever be as stupid as his father.
Peter didn't much feel like going back to class after that. He didn't feel like doing anything, really, so he went back up to the dormitory and just lay on his bed, thinking. He thought about his father, and the Death Eaters. Rosier had done it, had to have. Peter remembered him clearly, that meeting his first year at Platform 9 and ¾. Rosier and Peter's dad had been friends, sure – and then Rosier had betrayed him. Friendship couldn't last in the wizarding world these days, not with Voldemort and his Death Eaters getting bolder and stronger every day, and Peter wasn't the only student who'd been quietly taken aside in the past few weeks. No, there was a war going on, a quiet one still, but a war nonetheless. And when two friends met, the one who stabbed the other in the back was the only one guaranteed survival. Maybe it shouldn't be this way, but it was, and Peter couldn't change the way things were.
Betrayal couldn't be undertaken lightly. Its effects were powerful, and lasting. It had been nearly a year since Sirius's little mistake with Snape, but the rift it had created would never fully heal. Sirius pretended that everything was back to normal – hell, maybe he was oblivious and self-centered enough to think it really was – but Peter just saw the hurt in Remus's eyes, the new scars that cut across his face for all to see. Remus had forgiven Sirius, of course, but he would never really trust him again.
I could use that against them.
The thought came to Peter unbidden. It was the logical progression, after all. Nearly a year ago, he'd walked down the hall with Sirius and James, with Remus scarred and bloody in the infirmary, and had come to a dangerous realization. He'd pushed it back, of course. He hadn't been ready for it yet. But now…
Perhaps the best way to protect yourself is to be the betrayer before you can become the betrayed.
"Peter?" Remus stuck his head in the door. "Oh, there you are! We've been looking for you for ages." His head disappeared for a second. "He's in the dorm!"
"Where else would I be?" Peter asked, as the other three Marauders tumbled into the dormitory.
"Put your shoes on," James ordered. "Dumbledore wants to see us in his office, now."
Peter shoved his feet into his shoes, his body instinctively responding to an order from James before his mind had a chance to catch up. He hated that. "Me, too? Why?"
"He's called a few other seventh-years in as well," Sirius said cheerfully. "Come on."
Peter obediently started following them out, but Remus caught his arm. "What did McGonagall have to say?" he asked quietly.
Peter stuck his hands in his pockets and looked away. "Death Eaters killed my dad last night," he said bluntly. No reason to keep this secret, after all. Remus might even care.
"Oh, God!" Remus said, eyes wide. "Peter, I'm so sorry!"
"It's all right," Peter muttered, inexplicably embarrassed. "We weren't all that close."
"But still – well, your father!"
James, who'd been too far down the stairs to catch the exchange, turned and shot a dark look up at them. "What's going on?"
"Peter's father was murdered by Death Eaters," Remus told him.
"Shit!" James said, startled. "Why didn't you tell us, Pete? That's awful!"
Sirius had also heard the last bit. "I wonder if my cousins had anything to do with it," he muttered darkly. "Cissy's married to that tosser Malfoy now, and I heard that Bella was bonking that Lestrange bloke. Bloody wankers, the lot of them. That's really horrid, Peter."
"Yeah," Peter said.
Dumbledore had assembled a number of students in his office; the Marauders were the last to arrive. Also present were nearly all the other Gryffindor seventh-years – including Caradoc, Benjy, and Lily – six Hufflepuffs, and two Ravenclaws. Everyone looked tense. Dumbledore stood behind his desk solemnly, and drew up simple wooden chairs for the Marauders as they entered.
"Now that everyone is here, I will tell you all why I have summoned you today," Dumbledore said quietly. "I have no desire to make the sort of longwinded and virtually meaningless sort of speech favored by the Ministry of late, so I shall keep this brief and simple. There is a war coming. I believe you are all mature and intelligent enough to realize this, despite the Ministry's assertions to the contrary. There is a war coming, and there is a point at which we must all decide which side we are on. If any of you are as yet undecided, or if you plan to flee the country or go into hiding in hopes of escaping it, then you may leave this room now. There is no shame in doing so; several of you have lost relatives and loved ones already in this conflict, and more lives will certainly be lost before the end. If you leave now, you shall go in peace and with dignity."
Dumbledore fell silent for a long moment, looking into the eyes of each student. No one moved.
"Very well," he said. For an instant, an expression like relief passed across his face. "What I am about to tell you all may not be repeated to anyone outside of this room. I have selected you on the basis of your intelligence, your various talents, and above all, your loyalty to friends and family. In a few months, you will be graduating, and the time has come to decide what you will do with the next few years of your lives." He cleared his throat, and stood up a little straighter. "I am a member of an association of witches and wizards who believe that Lord Voldemort represents a serious threat to our society and the world as we know it, and are willing to fight for that belief. We believe that the only possible successful resistance is an organized one, and every individual in our order has his or her own valuable skills and knowledge. Alone, we stand no chance against Voldemort and his Death Eaters; together, we may be a force to be reckoned with. Our numbers are small, but growing. For as long as Hogwarts continues training children, every year I will approach certain seventh-year students with the same proposition I extend to you all: join us. We have a long and extremely difficult battle ahead of us. Not all will survive it; perhaps none of us will. But it is our only chance. You are our future. You are our strongest hope that there will be a future."
He gestured to a tattered old book on his desk.
"This is a Portkey. It will take us to an undisclosed location in the heart of London – not our headquarters, incidentally. But there you can meet the other members of this group, and speak with them, and decide whether or not you are willing to join us." He smiled wryly. "Of course, I hope that you understand that those of you who decide against it will have your memories modified slightly, as a safety precaution."
A couple of student giggled a little at this, but no one was leaving yet. Interesting, Peter thought, and wondered if perhaps this little organization of Dumbledore's did stand a chance against the Death Eaters. He went up to the desk and touched the Portkey, like everyone else, and found himself in a smallish, shabby room. The window curtains were drawn, so they couldn't see where they were, but he could hear traffic sounds outside. A flat in Muggle London, then. Probably.
"Welcome," Dumbledore said, once they were all assembled, "to the Order of the Phoenix."
Peter looked around in disbelief. The shabby room was filled with people, yes – but it wasn't a particularly large room, so crowding it wasn't difficult. Longbottom and his wife were there, along with a few other Aurors, easily identifiable by the professional cut of their robes and the sharp intelligence in their eyes. The rest were a motley assortment of ragtag wizards – one or two looked actually dangerous, but most just appeared unkempt and vaguely eccentric.
There were fewer than thirty of them in all, not counting Peter and the other seventh-year students.
This is it? Peter thought. These are the wizards who think they can save the world? A handful of misfits and untrained students?
And as Dumbledore began introducing the students to the older members of the Order, Peter knew.
They didn't stand a chance. The Dark Lord's forces far surpassed this. He would crush each and every one of them like bugs.
They were all going to die.
And above all else, Peter wanted to survive.
They used another Portkey to get back to Hogwarts just before lights out, and split up to return to their respective House common rooms. James and Lily had some Head Boy and Girl duties to attend to, and some of the other Gryffindors were still engaged in a long, animated conversation with a couple of Hufflepuffs. Peter, Remus, Sirius, and Caradoc headed off back to Gryffindor Tower on their own.
"Can you imagine?" Caradoc said. "A chance to do something important after graduation. Maybe now I can convince my mum that there are practical applications to being a Cursebreaker."
"Maybe Dumbledore can get me a real job," Remus said wistfully. "I used to think it was the Ministry or nothing. And, well…" He didn't finish the thought. Werewolves were forbidden positions with the Ministry of Magic, and several other lines of work besides.
Sirius grinned and threw his arms around Remus and Peter. "Ready to save the world, lads?"
Peter pulled away. "You don't get it, do you?" he said coldly. The others stopped walking and looked at him in surprise.
"What do you mean?" Remus asked.
"You think this is all some sort of game," Peter said. "Save the world, beat up the bad guys, get the glory, right?" They didn't respond. Peter wrinkled his nose in disgust. "You idiots. Haven't you been paying attention? This is war. People are dying. We're up against a power the likes of which have never been seen before, ever. And we don't know how to win. Did you see Dumbledore's face back there? He's scared. He doesn't know what he's doing. Why else would he recruit a bunch of untrained kids?"
"Scared, Peter?" Sirius asked quietly.
"You're damn right I'm scared," Peter snapped.
For a second, they just looked at each other. Finally, Sirius laughed. "Poor Peter," he said. "Where's your Gryffindor courage, old chap?" He shook his head with mock sadness. "You know, sometimes I wonder if you were sorted into the right house."
Remus and Caradoc laughed, and life snapped back to normal.
Peter forced a grin and went along with them, but a coldness settled in the pit of his stomach. Well, he had tried, hadn't he? And they hadn't listened. They never listened to him. They never would. Fine, then. It would be their loss, in the end.
He sometimes wondered if he really had fooled the Sorting Hat, or if his audacity in thinking he could was a prime example of the sort of courageous idiocy so prized by Gryffindors. Well, there was also a dark sort of courage in standing up to your closest friends, choosing sides against them, even betraying them if necessary. It takes courage to go against all you've been taught and raised to believe in.
And when it came down to it, Peter had that sort of courage in abundance.
He ran into Sirius's younger brother by accident, really. They'd both been given detention by Filch for completely different reasons, but he'd lumped the two of them together because he assumed that, being from Gryffindor and Slytherin, they would of course hate each other, and that made their punishment all the more delicious.
They spent the first fifteen minutes silently scrubbing (no magic!) all of the ancient torture devices in a small dungeon previously unknown to students – not even the Marauders, which irked Peter somewhat.
"So, what're you in for?" Peter finally asked.
Regulus glared at him. "He found me on the third floor after lights-out," he muttered sullenly.
"That's it?" Peter scoffed. "You're a fifth year, aren't you? You should know better than to be caught."
"Well, what'd you do, then?" Regulus demanded, eyes flaring.
"Just taking the fall for another one of your brother's lousy ideas," Peter said. He made no attempt to keep the bitterness out of his voice. Actually, he played it up a bit.
Regulus smiled grimly. "I know the feeling. I'm glad he's got you to blame these days. It's nice being the golden boy at home, now that he's not around to tarnish my reputation anymore."
"Take him back," Peter said. "I don't want him."
There was a long pause. Peter rubbed at an unidentifiable spiky thing vigorously, well aware that Regulus was sizing him up.
"So what do you want, then, Pettigrew?" Regulus asked, a strangely predatory glint in his eyes. He was young yet, and fairly unimportant in the scheme of things, but he had powerful relatives. This was it.
It wasn't that Peter wanted to be evil. He just wanted to stay alive.
"There's a war coming," Peter said simply. "It's already begun. I just want to survive it. I think your brother's chosen the wrong side, and I don't want to make the same mistake." He appraised Regulus coolly. "And you?"
Regulus smiled. "There's someone I think you should meet."
The Years of the Rat
OED, rat: v. To desert one's party, side, or cause, esp. in politics; to go over as a deserter; to turn traitor. Also, in Criminals' slang, to inform.
After graduating from Hogwarts, the days and months and years started blending into one another. Peter spent more and more time as Wormtail, and rats have a very narrow sense of time. What was is past and unimportant; the future stretches no farther than a few more minutes and may not really exist. There's just now, and that's all that matters.
The longer Peter spent in rat form, the more rat-like his thought processes became. The past was in the past and the details were hazy, and the future promised to be more of the same. He didn't look for an end to the war (and war it really was now) or hope for future glories and riches. He didn't even notice that he was being drawn deeper and deeper into the Death Eaters' plots, that he was passing more and more information to the Dark Lord. He just survived, and survival is a moment-to-moment thing.
Sometimes entire days passed as Wormtail, and he scarcely noticed.
He had to buy a new dress robe for James and Lily's wedding; he wasn't sure what happened to his old one. Maybe it got too small or too tattered and he'd thrown it out. Maybe he'd lost it in one of his numerous moves (he'd lived in five different flats in London over the past year, driven by a deep-seated paranoia that might be Wormtail's fault or might be related to the whole double-agent game he was playing). Or maybe he never really had one. That was always a possibility. It wasn't important enough to remember.
Being Peter in the company of other people always sharpened his mind somewhat, reminded him who he was and where he came from and what he was doing. He spent too much time alone or just observing others as Wormtail. The rat was useful for his work, both for the Order and the Death Eaters. In the Order, he was a sort of messenger, delivering communications too sensitive for owl post, but whenever he delivered a message he then doubled back in rat form to watch its receiver's response. Along the way, Peter learned the contents of most of the messages he carried, and Voldemort found that information very useful indeed.
But it meant a hell of a lot of time as a rat, and not much as human. It was good to just be Peter sometimes; even Voldemort and the handful of Death Eaters who knew that Peter reported to him usually called him Wormtail.
There were a lot of wizards and witches getting married these days; Peter supposed that with the ongoing war growing more dangerous every day, people tried to live for the moment. Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we may die, and the Potter wedding was the living example of that particular adage.
"Peter!" Sirius cried gaily, stumbling across the room to throw an arm around Peter's shoulders. "You aren't nearly plastered enough yet! Have a firewhisky! Have twelve!"
"That's all right," Peter replied absently. "You're drunk enough for both of us." His mind was elsewhere; he was watching James and Lily dance together. James wasn't much of dancer, but he looked well enough today, pressed up against Lily, moving as if he were just an extension of her body – which was true enough now, Peter supposed. That relationship was like a rock, and they'd likely be the most effective married team the Order had, along with the Longbottoms. He'd consider it, but Peter knew he'd never be able to drive a wedge between them. Too bad. His only orders from Voldemort, apart from spying, were to do everything in his ability to splinter the Order from within. He couldn't do much without compromising himself, but over time… Not the Potters, though. To strong a foundation to crack.
But within the Marauders themselves, well, he had a couple of ideas. Too early to make a real move yet, though.
Yeah, spending time as Peter definitely woke his brain up again. He should do this more often.
Sirius followed Peter's gaze. "They're so right together," he mumbled, almost morosely. Sirius's moods were always mercurial, and the alcohol certainly helped things along. "I wish I could be that right with someone."
Discord within the ranks? Sirius now had Peter's undivided attention. "What about Remus? Aren't you two—"
Sirius snorted in a very canine fashion. "We're no James and Lily, that's for sure."
"You've got a flat together."
"Sometimes I think the only reason he hasn't found his own place is because he can't afford it," Sirius complained. "I don't know for sure; he doesn't talk to me about those things. I never realized how secretive he was before."
Peter raised an eyebrow. "Remus? Secretive? You don't say."
Sirius waved his hand dismissively. "You know what I mean. He's supposed to trust me."
You just don't get it, do you? Peter thought incredulously. All this time, and Sirius still thought the incident sixth year hadn't changed anything? Idiot.
Yeah, Peter could use this.
"Maybe I should find a nice girl somewhere," Sirius rambled on philosophically, downing another drink. "Girls are supposed to talk about their feelings and tell secrets and stuff, right? And they're nice. They're soft and they smell nice. Do you like girls, Peter?"
"Er, yes, they're lovely." Peter didn't much care about romance, one way or another. He'd been with a girl or two, sure, to see what it was like. It was nice enough, but unnecessary. Peter didn't bother much with unnecessary things these days.
"A girl would be nice," Sirius decided, then changed his mind. "Except the talking and feelings and things might get annoying after a while. So maybe not."
Peter wondered what would happen if Remus were to come over now, with Sirius in this mood. It might be entertaining, at least. But no, Remus was on the other side of the tent the Potters had set up for the wedding and reception, and it wasn't quite worth the effort of fetching him.
Instead, he amused himself by playing Good Friend to Sirius, which included listening to all his drunken confessions and helping him find his way home when he had Had Enough. It didn't take long to get to that stage, which was good, because it gave Peter an excuse to say his goodbyes and get out of there while the party was still raging. After depositing Sirius in his flat, Peter scurried off to do…well, Wormtail business.
Late that night, on their way home from the wedding party, James's parents were attacked and killed by a small group of Death Eaters, including Regulus Black. Regulus was Peter's usual contact; he held a similar position among the Death Eaters to Peter's in the Order, and he relayed messages that were too sensitive for more normal channels – like information from spies.
Peter was never sure exactly why the elder Mr. and Mrs. Potter were murdered; it didn't seem to have all that much strategic importance. But the Death Eaters weren't very good at separating business from personal, and the Black family had never forgiven the Potters for taking Sirius in.
Peter next met Regulus two days later, in a narrow alley in one of London's poorer neighborhoods. "You seem to have put my information to good use," he commented mildly. "Did the Dark Lord give the order to kill the Potters, or did you actually take some initiative on your own?"
Regulus seemed uncharacteristically on edge. "Bella ordered it."
"I should have known. It was a great blow to her pride when the Potters seduced Sirius away, wasn't it?"
"You have information for me?" Regulus asked crossly.
Peter smiled and pulled a thin roll of parchment out of his robes. "Your first killing, right? How did you like it?"
"They were blood traitors, like my brother," Regulus replied shortly. "They deserved to die."
"Of course, but that wasn't my question. You were supposed to tell me how much you enjoyed it, like all Death Eaters do. My pay, if you please."
Regulus shoved a small cloth bag full of coins at him. Another benefit to being on the dark side: while the Order couldn't afford to pay its members regular wages, the Death Eaters could. "Take it and go," Regulus spat. "I'll not have my loyalties questioned by a rat." He turned and Disapparated, rather abruptly.
Peter shook his head in amusement. They all still thought calling him a rat was an insult.
He avoided meeting directly with Voldemort as much as possible. Voldemort scared the shit out of him. Better to deal with Regulus, that haughty scion of the Black family, so like Sirius would have been without James. Proud, lonely, and not as strong as he thought he was. Peter pitied him.
He'd even rather face Bellatrix than the Dark Lord, because she was scary and possibly deranged but at least she still cared what other people thought of her, even if 'other people' only really meant Voldemort and possibly her husband. But still. Better than Voldemort, who just didn't fucking care about anyone but himself. Bella was less powerful than Voldemort, too. Obviously.
So he avoided meeting directly with Voldemort as much as possible.
It wasn't always possible, of course, but Peter didn't like to dwell on those encounters.
Peter measured time in pregnancies. It seemed like half the female population of the wizarding world decided to get pregnant at around the same time, over the course of a couple of years after the Marauders' graduation. He wondered which of these unborn children would grow up to be the key players of their generation. Who would be the leaders, the followers, the outcasts, the miscreants? Who would survive to adulthood, and who would die in infancy?
He measured time in deaths. Of Order members, mostly, if only because he knew them all by name, while the vast majority of the Death Eaters were only shadowy figures. The deaths began adding up in earnest just as all the babies were being born. He wondered if Voldemort had planned it that way. Probably just coincidence.
He measured time in Order plans foiled through his information, in Order members wounded and killed because of a note he had made to this or that parchment, handed over to Regulus in due course.
He measured time in the eyes of the people who realized they'd been betrayed, too late. There was no time left for them, none at all. He only dealt a handful of deaths personally, and he remembered each one vividly. Benjy Fenwick's was the worst or the best, depending on how you looked at it. Peter incapacitated him much the same way as in that Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson, except that standard dueling conditions no longer applied. Only tiny bits of Benjy were ever found; Peter filed that particular spell in the back of his mind as a particularly good way to make someone disappear – or seem to disappear.
But most of the time, Peter didn't bother measuring time at all.
One bitterly cold winter's day, Regulus didn't meet Peter at the appointed time. Wormtail waited there for nearly an hour, curled up in a small pile of litter, but Regulus didn't show. Because Peter's information was never passed along, a small group of Death Eaters walked straight into an ambush organized and led by Sirius. Peter idly wondered if Regulus and Sirius were somehow working together, but knew it was probably just ironic coincidence that one brother's failure led directly to the other's success.
A week later, Peter learned that Regulus was dead. He didn't tell Sirius. It took a while for the information to get through the Order's usual channels, but they eventually heard the news. Apparently, Regulus had tried to back out, and Voldemort issued a license to kill immediately – which amused Peter no end. It sure is rotten luck to have your communications compromised, isn't it? Not that he ever explained the irony to anyone. He somehow doubted that anyone else would get the joke.
Sirius responded to Regulus's death somewhat strangely. He just laughed, that short, barking laugh ringing throughout his flat when he was told. Peter wondered if Sirius was coming slightly unhinged.
He voiced this concern to Remus alone, and Remus took it in exactly the intended way. The already-damaged trust between Moony and Padfoot eroded just a little bit more.
It was almost childishly easy to splinter Remus out of the group. Remus had always been a loner by nature, forced into habits of secrecy and distrust by the disease incurred in childhood. He'd always been desperately lonely for true friendship, and clung to it when he thought he had it, but his greatest fear was the betrayal of that friendship; Peter hadn't forgotten the look in Remus's eyes after the Snape incident. And Peter exploited that fear for all it was worth, gradually but thoroughly. A word or two here, a hint there… It was like a game for Peter, a master game of chess, stretched out so slowly and languorously that you hardly realized the pieces were moving until – checkmate. He'd learned that game from Caradoc and Benjy, and though he hadn't appreciated it at the time, he was certainly putting it to good use now.
Remus kept right on trusting Peter, of course. That was the beauty of it. Remus needed to trust someone, after all, and the pair of them had never entirely managed to puncture the Best Friend Bubble of James and Sirius's relationship.
They don't appreciate you, Peter told him.
They don't trust you like they should.
It's the werewolf thing, I know better but they don't, pureblood prejudices, you know.
It's like the thing with Snape, sometimes they just don't think, but that's all it takes.
I trust you, though, Remus. I'll always be here for you.
So easy, like following a script. Peter might have felt guilty about it, but by pushing Remus away from the other Marauders – and, by extension, the Order – he was probably actually pushing Remus out of harm's way, ensuring his survival. And in the end, Remus would know how to save himself, instinctively, like a frightened animal. Peter liked that about Remus. They were both survivors.
Just before little Harry's first birthday – and when had he gotten so big? Peter really needed to keep better track of time – Dumbledore sent Remus out on a secret mission of sorts. Remus was to seek out the other marginalized Dark creatures in the wizarding world, from other werewolves to vampires and the like, and feel them out. Learn if any of the neutral ones might be amenable to the Order, and how many had already gone over to Voldemort's camp. Peter only learned of the mission because he was the person handling the dispatches about it, and would (if necessary) deliver reports directly from Remus to Dumbledore when, for whatever reason, Remus couldn't go in person.
No one else, not even other Order members, not even Sirius, knew what Remus was supposed to be up to.
It was absolutely perfect. Remus was now vanishing for days, even a week or two at a time, and no one but Peter knew where he was or what he was doing. He missed the quiet little birthday party Lily and James had for Harry. He missed Order meetings. He made Sirius and James more suspicious of him than Peter could have ever managed on his own.
The final nail in the coffin, as it were, was also inadvertently of Remus's own devising. He owled Peter one night in early October to meet him in a seedy pub in Liverpool. He said he had an urgent message for Dumbledore. Peter didn't know why Remus couldn't have Apparated back to London himself; he'd never find out, and didn't really care.
"So what's all this about?" Peter asked, joining Remus at an isolated booth in a dark corner of the pub.
Remus pulled out a roll of parchment. "This needs to get to Dumbledore, as soon as possible. I'm sorry I can't check in myself, but I'm involved in a…situation here, and I can't get out just yet."
Peter took it and stuck it in his robes. "So what's in the report?" Remus visibly hesitated. "Come on, you hauled my arse out of bed at one in the morning to go halfway across England to play delivery boy, and I bloody well want a hint as to why." He did overtired and petulant well.
Remus sighed and stared into his untouched pint. "As of last night, the entire werewolf population of England is officially compromised. You-Know-Who finally got his hands on the Werewolf Registry. I assume someone in the Ministry is working directly for him – probably several people. At any rate, he knows exactly who we all are now – and where we are, and where our families are – and can turn us – or kill us – one by one, as he so chooses." He ran a hand through his hair. He looked as though he'd aged several years in the past month or so. "Werewolves are officially not amenable to the Order now."
"What about you?" Peter asked, feigning surprise. It was bound to happen sooner or later.
Remus just shrugged wearily
"You should leave!" Peter told him. "Get out of the country, get out of Europe. You-Know-Who isn't all-powerful yet, there must be somewhere—"
"I have arrangements in place, if I so choose," Remus told him quietly, and wouldn't say another word on the subject.
It couldn't have worked out better if Peter had planned it. Rather than go directly to Dumbledore, he went straight up to the flat Sirius and Remus shared, and spent nearly ten minutes banging on the door before Sirius opened it.
"What the fuck," Sirius snarled – rather mildly, Peter thought, given the circumstances.
"Message," Peter said, already shifting his manner of speech into 'babbling' mode. "I've got a message and I'm supposed to deliver it straight to Dumbledore, only I stopped to have a look and don't give me that look, Sirius, I had to, you see, because it concerns Remus and—"
Sirius held up a hand for silence. He yanked Peter fully inside the flat and shut the door, then accioed his wand and cast a silencing spell on the flat. "Okay. You're going to speak more slowly, Peter, and you're bloody well going to make sense or I'll shove my wand up your arse."
Peter pulled the parchment out of his robes. "It's about werewolves," he said. "I shouldn't be showing it to you, but…just read it."
After a moment, Sirius nodded and took the parchment, unrolling it. As he skimmed its contents, his brow furrowed. "Who gave you this?"
Peter hedged deliberately, shifting his weight. "I really, really shouldn't be telling you this…"
"Cut the crap, Peter. You've broken enough rules already, just take the next step."
You have no idea, Peter thought. "We have…someone in place. In northern England. He has certain…contacts. I deliver messages from him to Dumbledore." Good old Remus and his eminent professionalism; he never signed his name to any of his reports. "Normally I don't read them, I swear, only this time something he said made me wonder, so…"
"Right. Thank you." Sirius read the document over again, more carefully. "Peter, this is…I need to show this to James."
"You can't!" Peter protested. "I've got to give it to Dumbledore straightaway, I shouldn't have even—"
"It concerns Remus, and what concerns him concerns the rest of the Marauders, right? James needs to know."
Peter made a great show of reluctance. "I suppose I could show it to him myself…if you'll tell me where they are this week?" James and Lily currently evaded Voldemort not so much by hiding as by moving around fairly constantly. Harder to hit a moving target, and all that. Peter knew they thought they'd found a good permanent place to hide, but they hadn't settled there yet. Once they did…well, there were always ways of getting to them, he supposed, although at the moment he wasn't sure just how. He'd keep working on that.
Sirius shook his head firmly. Ah, well, it was worth a try. "Sorry, Peter. It's not that I don't trust you, you know. It's just that the fewer people who know this, the better."
"Right," Peter sighed. "Well, I suppose I could let you hold on to the parchment for a little while. But I need it back by tomorrow night, at the absolute latest. Seriously. Promise?"
"No problem," Sirius said, and the funny thing was, he'd probably be true to his word.
"You don't think…" Peter started, with just the right amount of hesitance. "I mean, the report. Remus wouldn't really turn, would he?"
Sirius glanced down at the parchment grimly. "He might not think he has a choice."
Perfect.
Even if Peter actually got into a little bit of trouble for this – unlikely, since he had a number of excellent excuses up his sleeve – it was worth it. Remus was out. Now he just had to work on driving a wedge between James and Sirius, which would be a lot harder.
But as it turned out, he wouldn't have to do much of anything.
Several weeks passed. Remus vanished – for good, probably, Peter thought. He wondered what Remus's 'arrangements' had been. Whatever they were, they had been good ones, and Voldemort soon lost what little interest he'd had in that particular werewolf.
And one sunny afternoon in late October, Peter met Sirius, James, and Lily in a public library – in the Restricted Section, appropriately enough. The perfect place for some good old fashioned marauding.
"Where's Harry?" Peter asked, by way of greeting.
James and Lily exchanged a look. "One of our new Muggle neighbors is watching him," Lily said.
Peter smiled wryly. "I suppose you can't tell me where. Is this goodbye, then?"
"No," James said. "Actually, it's…well, we need to perform the Fidelius Charm. Tonight, if possible."
Peter glanced at Sirius.
"Not with me," Sirius said gruffly. "I know, we've planned it this way for ages, I'm the boy's bloody godfather, but…"
"Too obvious," James said bluntly. "Especially if Remus is compromised. It's just a risk we can't afford to take."
"Besides," Sirius added, "if there really is a spy within the Order, he or she will probably come after me, and that's our best chance of identifying them."
Peter's head swam. He didn't have to fake his befuddlement this time. "So…what you're saying is…?"
Lily smiled gently at him. "Peter, would you be willing to be our Secret Keeper?"
No. They can't possibly be this stupid, can they? "Are you taking the piss?"
Sirius sighed, leaning against a bookshelf. "Just say yes, Pete. We know you'd never let us down."
"It's his decision," James said, never taking his eyes off Peter.
Well, there really was only one thing to do, wasn't there? "I'd be honored."
He'd never thought it would end up being this easy. Never in a million years.
"I bring good tidings, my Lord. The very best. That's why I had to deliver the news personally."
"Well?"
"I know where the Potters are."
When it all went wrong, Peter didn't question it. He didn't refuse to believe the rumors, like some Death Eaters, or engage in heated debates as towhy. He just got the hell out of there before anyone else could remember exactly who had directed the Dark Lord to Godric's Hollow.
He didn't bother returning to his flat. He had nothing but the robes on his back and his wand in his pocket, and didn't care. There was no question of ever living in the wizarding world again. He had gambled it all, and lost, and it was only a matter of who would kill him first – the Order or the Death Eaters. He'd have to go into hiding, deep hiding, as Wormtail, and probably never take human form again. Even then, he would never be really safe. A couple of the Death Eaters knew his rat shape, would be able to track him. As would Sirius…
Sirius.
It was all so obvious, wasn't it? Sirius was the only Order member who knew that Peter had been the Potters' Secret Keeper. But everyone else thought it had been Sirius. And Peter knew Sirius. The odds were a hundred to one against that Sirius would actually stop to tell anyone, by the way, it was Peter who did it. No, he'd want revenge. He'd want to kill Peter with his own hands, then tell the story afterwards. And he was a fucking genius with tracking spells, Marauder's Map or no. So he'd come straight for Peter, and wouldn't stop until…
…until Peter was dead.
So Peter would die. And Sirius would probably be hurled into Azkaban without any questions asked, and no one would believe that he hadn't been the Secret Keeper because the only people who could support his story were dead.
And the remaining Death Eaters wouldn't bother hunting down a dead rat.
Peter knew that magic was primarily about intent, and if he wanted something badly enough, he could make it happen. He knew that there needn't be an extant spell for what he planned, so long as he had enough power and control over the magic. And the manner of Lily's death had taught him that the greater the personal sacrifice, the more powerful the effect.
So he planned it all perfectly. He waited for Sirius in the bustling street. His hands were hidden under his very loose robes, his left hand delicately tickling the base of his finger with a silver dagger. No wand today; he must appear to be totally defenseless. Besides, what use has a rat for a wand?
And, right on cue, Sirius came.
"How could you, Sirius?" Peter screamed. Heads turned. Muggles stared. Sirius made a low growling noise in the back of his throat. "How could you betray James and Lily? You killed them!"
Come on, you git, he thought, raise your bloody wand.
Sirius advanced upon him, eyes murderous. He raised his wand.
Calmly, Peter slipped the dagger through flesh and bone. He didn't feel a thing. His finger fell to the ground, and the world exploded around him.
Peter smiled, slipping into his rat form like a familiar robe, and scurried away.
