3 July 2003
Stag Night
~ VI ~
Peter had not meant to wander so far, of course, but he’d
got scared--that’s how he always seemed to get into trouble. He had only wanted
to get away for a moment, just to clear his head and get his bearings.
In Peter’s world, there were scary things and then there
were scary things. That is, there were some things you could run away from
and others that… He tried not to think about the latter category, but when
those two tall women had accosted them, he’d felt a strong desire to put as
much distance between them and himself as he could. The tarts had focused on
Sirius, naturally, as Peter had seen from his vantage point behind James.
Sirius could handle it; once he’d even bragged that two girls at once would be
a ripping good time. Remus had scowled darkly at that suggestion, but Peter had
said nothing because his stomach had been doing flip-flops as if, in the blink
of an eye, a stranger had replaced the Sirius he knew. Why hadn’t James been
there to make him stop? Why couldn’t James have been there more often?
Hiding behind James had given him a shred of security while
those women were leering at Sirius. He felt better as soon as they’d left. But,
when the squat, sallow-faced wizard appeared out of nowhere, Peter recoiled and
stepped away from James and the others so as not to get too close to the ugly
creature, whose demeanor put him sharply in mind of those sorry cases who
begged in Diagon Alley, who pawed at him every day when he went to work, who
asked -- no, demanded - that he give them money. And he always did, feeling
vaguely unclean about flinging the coins down on the pavement as he bolted for
the security of his desk.
But these days there wasn’t any place to hide.
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“…the worst in years, the worst that I can remember. Don’t
leave the door open, Peter! The draft is killing us.”
Eurydice Featherfoil looked down her nose at him through
her batwing-shaped spectacles. She was huddled next to the small fireplace in
the clerks’ room with Persephone Toadflax, engaged in the morning ritual of
gossip.
“Sorry,” muttered Peter. He wished that he could think up a
snappy comeback as he wrestled with the heavy door. A combination of too much
drink and too little sleep had robbed him of both strength and wit this
morning.
“Worst, eh?” Persephone sniffed. She was plump and round
where Eurydice was angular and gaunt, but they shared a passion for gossip. No
rumor was too far-fetched for them to hash and rehash. “Only seven, that’s what
I heard. Last year’s count was ten.”
Peter shuffled over to the table in the corner that held
the tea things. Tea wasn’t going to fix his pounding head, but it wouldn’t make
it worse either, and it meant a delay in beginning the day’s work of staring at
pointless black squiggles marching across pointless pieces of parchment.
“Ooooh, Peter. We’d love a cuppa, wouldn’t we?” Persephone
called out. “There’s a love.”
“Seven?” Eurydice shook her head. “Eleven. The Daily
Prophet only reported seven, it’s true, but my sister told me…”
Peter stopped listening and concentrated on opening the tin
of tea. His hand shook as he ladled leaves into the teapot. He’d had too much
to drink last night at James’s Hallowe’en party, but that wasn’t the only thing
making his stomach churn this morning.
Dumbledore’s words and the memory of those sharp, blue eyes
troubled him as much as the hangover. The old wizard, his face more grave than
Peter could remember, had told the assembled crowd of witches and wizards how
the Ministry struggled to gain the upper hand against the Death Eaters and Lord
Voldemort. Had he meant that the Ministry was losing the war? Peter had never
considered the possibility before and the thought of it drove sharp quills of
panic deep into his gut. Dumbledore had gone on to tell them that their help
was needed, not in an official capacity but as a sort of irregular corps. Peter
wasn’t clear on the details. The others had listened intently, but he hadn’t
been able to focus on the words after a while, the roaring in his ears so loud
that he found it nearly impossible to make sense of what Dumbledore was saying.
Most of the dozen or so wizards and witches seated in
James’s parlor had remained silent, although Mundungus Fletcher had been as
daft as ever, interrupting ten or twenty times with shouts of, “Hear, hear!”
and, “Smack ‘em, I say!” Sirius had jumped up and begun pacing the room as if he
were ready to battle You-Know-Who single-handedly then and there. James had
kept to his seat, holding Lily’s hand and occasionally whispering to her
intently.
All the talk had been confusing to Peter. In the end, he
hadn’t been able to figure out what was being asked of them, though the others
seemed to understand. All Peter knew was that he wanted to get good and drunk
in hopes of quieting the feelings that gnawed at him like wild dogs chewing
away at the carcass of a dead cow.
And he had gotten drunk, very drunk (surprising even
Sirius), which was why he felt so rotten this morning. He managed to boil water
and steep tea, major accomplishments both. Shakily, he poured the tea into
three of the department’s mismatched cups. Persephone and Eurydice paid no attention
to him as they continued their morning tête-à-tête. No item was too trivial for
the two of them to pick apart.
“...and that couple over in Little Horsted makes eleven,”
pronounced Eurydice triumphantly. “Oh and such a tragedy, too. Star-crossed lovers,
snuffed out-- “ She lowered her voice dramatically. “--by You-Know-Who.”
“Are you sure?” said Persephone as Eurydice dabbed her eyes
with a handkerchief.
“The Dark Mark was seen,” she whispered, “plain as
anything.”
Peter strained to hear the details as he conjured a bit of
milk. He picked up two of the full teacups and, mustering all the concentration
that his pounding head would allow, teetered across the room.
“Well,” said Eurydice huffily, “my sister’s husband works
in Magical Law Enforcement, as you know, and he said that those two were found
in a very compromising position...”
“But I heard from
Mrs. Witherspoon, my neighbor, whose daughter works for the Accidental Magical
Reversal Squad,” replied Persephone archly, playing a hidden trump card, “that
the girl was actually a Muggle.”
“I don’t see wha--“ began Eurydice, but she was interrupted
by a loud crash as one of the cups that Peter had been holding fell to the
floor and shattered. She looked at him disapprovingly and said, “Peter, do be
more careful! There’s only so many times that a mending charm can be applied to
our poor cups.”
“Sorry,” Peter mumbled. He thrust the surviving teacup at
the clerks and scurried back across the room to retrieve the third cup. As he
handed it to Eurydice, he said, “Here...I didn’t want any. Erm, by any chance
do you know the name of this wizard that got…that was, you know, at Little
Horsted?”
“Braddock, wasn’t it?” said Eurydice sipping her tea. She
made a face. “Sugar?”
Peter, unable to say or do anything coherent, pointed
vaguely at the table behind him. Eurydice raised her wand and used a summoning
charm to make three sugar cubes shoot through the air and plop themselves into
her cup.
“No, no,” said Persephone. “It was Baddock. Mrs. Witherspoon’s daughter told me herself.”
On hearing the name--the name he’d suspected, the name he’d
dreaded--Peter stumbled backward. His feet crunched on fragments of the broken
cup and he slipped on the puddle of tea.
“So,” said Persephone with a satisfied smirk, “that girl
was a Muggle and that means only ten wizards killed at Hallowe’en and not
eleven.”
He managed to grasp a chair and steady himself to avoid
meeting the same fate as the teacup. The women shook their heads and tut-tutted
him, but immediately resumed their gossip. Peter, however, had to get out. He
dragged himself to the door and pulled it open.
“Oh, honestly--” Eurydice broke off, annoyed. “Peter? Where
are you going?”
“Got some filing to do down in the basement,” Peter
stammered, standing in the doorway and clutching the door for support. “Been
meaning to get to it for weeks and there’s no time…like the present.”
“And I suppose you expect us to
clean up your mess for you! Come back--”
Peter crept down to the basement, where he managed to stay
holed up for the next week. There were
several decades’ worth of deeds and wills that needed filing and Mr. Bartelby did get most upset when a record
couldn’t be found.
He couldn’t hide forever, though. He knew that. He met up
with the dreaded aftermath of Hallowe’en one evening as he emerged furtively
from the law firm’s basement and crept up the stairs. The little-used back door
led directly up into a narrow passageway between two buildings. A single
ever-burning candle shone from a wall bracket above the stairwell, casting a
small circle of light at his feet. He raised his wand and mentally prepared to
Apparate.
“Peter! Where’ve you been hiding?”
A dark form melted out of the shadows, coalescing into Jack
Travers. He sauntered casually towards Peter, a smile on his face and hands
stuck into his pockets. In the dim light of the little alley his eyes appeared
empty and his face grimmer than usual.
“Hiding? Me?” said Peter and dropped his wand in surprise.
Jack reached the wand in two long strides, picked it up and
put it in his pocket. “I haven’t seen you in a week,” he said in a calm voice
that Peter did not find reassuring. “Every time I stopped by the office, the
girls told me you were off somewhere and couldn’t be found.”
“Been really, really busy,” said Peter, backing away until
he could feel himself teetering on the edge of the top stair. “We’re so behind
on all our filing that I…”
“Oh?” said Jack, stepping closer. “Too busy for your
friends? You haven’t stopped by the pub since Hallowe’en. I was afraid you were
ill.”
“Ill, yes. Actually, er, my mum’s been sick,” stammered
Peter, “and I’ve been looking after her, y’know.”
“Sorry to hear that,” said Jack knowingly, a glint in his
ice-blue eyes. “She getting better?”
“I suppose you could say…I mean…” Peter replied, too caught
up in his lie to know how to answer.
“Good. Then I’m sure she can do without you for a bit,”
said Jack and wrapped his fingers tightly around Peter’s upper arm.
Peter gave a strangled squeak. Jack ignored his obvious
distress and pulled him toward Diagon Alley, not relaxing his grip as they
squeezed through the narrow passageway.
I’m dead, Peter thought, because
Jack Travers is a Death Eater and he’s going to kill me next.
The inescapable conclusion had settled on him painfully the
morning after Hallowe’en like a dragon landing on a spindly-legged chair, which
is to say that the certainty of how and why Harley Baddock had been killed was
crushing him, making it hard for him to breathe every hour of the day and
keeping him awake at night with visions of black-cloaked demons looming over
his bed. In the mornings he’d wake up drenched in sweat, unrefreshed and
fearful.
As they emerged into the brighter lights of Diagon Alley,
Jack relaxed his grip for an instant and then linked arms with Peter casually
in the way that schoolboys might do, though his grip was firm and anything but
casual. Around them witches and wizards strolled, some alone and some in little
knots heading home or to the pub. Late shoppers bustled about finishing errands
before the close of business. Peter, his face slick with sweat, his
limbs going numb, was sure that no one else on the street felt the same
gut-wrenching panic that he felt.
“I expect you’ve heard about Harley,” said Jack
nonchalantly. His eyes roamed over the street and he occasionally smiled or
said a word to an acquaintance as they slipped through the crowds.
“Too bad,” Jack went on. “A senseless waste, wouldn’t you
say?”
Peter got as far as a choked gurgle, but terror had
rendered his tongue as stiff as a board. Jack turned to him, smiling, and said,
“I’m sure you tried to warn him. Didn’t you? You tried to tell him what a
mistake he was making…of course.”
“Wh--well,” said Peter thickly, “I might have, y’know, said
something like that, yes.”
“Obviously, he didn’t listen,” Jack said with a shrug,
turning his attention back to the street. “Not your fault, though.”
“I s’pose when you--when you put it like that--“ Peter
broke off because they were just outside the Golden Apple. His heart pounded as if it were trying to punch through
his ribs and he laughed shrilly. “You might have said that you wanted me to
come for a drink without being so mysterious about it.“
“No time for that now,” said Jack curtly, not smiling
anymore. “Perhaps later...”
By this time, he’d steered Peter around the corner from the
pub, away from the lights of Diagon Alley and down a short set of worn stone
steps that were poorly lit by a pair of sputtering torches. They turned another
corner and entered Knockturn Alley. Peter’s heart hammered as the emotional roller
coaster crawled to the top of one final high that was certain to be followed by
a dizzying descent into death.
“Where?” was all Peter managed to croak. He had no thought
of struggling or of trying to escape. If Jack Travers was a Death Eater and Peter was
marked for death, what would be the point of running away? Could his old
friends--even Dumbledore, if it came to that--save him?
“Three…four…”
Jack had taken out his wand and was counting the doorways
on their left, oblivious to the glares and mutterings of some of the wizards on
the street. Others simply ignored them, brushing by with faces averted or hoods
pulled down.
“Seven…eight…”
The street was irregular and dirty, as were the buildings
that housed shops selling potion ingredients, books, and other things that
Peter couldn’t or didn’t want to identify. They passed Hengis’s Herparium where
Peter couldn’t seem to take his eyes away from the large display window that
was filled top to bottom with snakes. Peter faltered. He was hypnotized by the seething
mass of reptiles that looked like an alien monster composed of hundreds of
tails and heads and forked tongues all bound together in a mysterious and
repellant way. The eyes were the most horribly fascinating part; the black
slits opened and closed, like doors to--
“Ten…Looking for a pet?” Jack said, giving Peter a sharp
tug to get him moving again. “I don’t think those are right for you. Come on.
We’re almost there.”
“Almost where?” whispered Peter.
“Eleven…twelve…”
Jack slowed down and then stopped, pulling Peter close so
that they both stood a handsbreadth away from a piece of wall adorned only with
peeling paint and torn handbills.
“This should be it.” Jack tapped his wand on the wall in
three different places while murmuring an incantation. In the blink of an eye,
a door appeared before them, a door no less faded and scarred than the wall had
been. Swiftly, Jack opened the door and gave Peter a shove. He landed on a
flight of wooden stairs opposite the door, clawing at the steps in an attempt to
scramble to his feet. He looked up to see Jack close the door and then his
world went dark.
“Lumos,”
whispered Jack hoarsely.
In the light from the wand, Peter first saw the tense line
of Jack’s jaw, and then he saw that the door had vanished, replaced by a blank
wall. They stood in an alcove barely two meters on a side, a landing at the
bottom of an unlit stairway, a dark passage to…where? Peter’s brain had frozen
and refused to churn out any more thoughts.
“Up,” Jack said and pointed his wand toward the shadowy
staircase.
Slowly, Peter’s feet found the stairs, his steps oddly
light; soon he’d be dead, he reckoned, and free from the terrible,
gut-wrenching anxiety of the past week.
At the top of the stairs, he expected to find a crowd of
Death Eaters, like the ones that haunted his nightmares, but there was only a
large, empty room with a high ceiling, bricked-up windows and peeling
wallpaper. He stumbled into the center and stared up at a formerly elegant
embossed tin ceiling and the huge chandelier that hung from its center. In
wandlight, the many arms were like those of a frozen squid casting tangled
shadows on the ceiling.
“Nox,” said Jack,
and the world went dark again.
Before Peter had time to blink, Jack spoke again in a harsh
voice that echoed off the walls.
“Morsmordre!”
The words were unfamiliar, but there could be no doubt that
this was a powerful spell. A sickening green light exploded into the room.
Peter looked up and gasped; his frantically beating heart almost stopped right
then as he beheld the image of a giant skull nearly two meters across that
floated overhead, swallowing up the chandelier and obscuring the ceiling. A
skull with a snake emerging from its mouth. The Dark Mark.
Peter fell to his knees and closed his eyes, more certain
than before that the end was near. He never knew how long he knelt there on the
dusty floor as the green light washed over him, head down and clutching his
knees, gasping each breath as if it were his last and waiting for death, or
worse.
Suddenly the light was gone. He knew it without opening his
eyes, just as he knew that he and Jack were no longer alone.
A presence. He felt the arrival of someone or something
else, though he didn’t hear a sound other than his own labored breathing.
“Leave us, Travers,” said a cold, high-pitched voice, a
voice that might have been childlike and comical in another time and place.
“Master,” was all Jack said in a peculiar tone that Peter
barely recognized. He knew that the word wasn’t meant for him, but for the
newcomer.
“Return when we are finished,” the voice continued, this
time coming from a different spot than before.
Peter turned his head slowly, straining to hear some hint
as to the location of the voice. But all he heard were heavy footfalls as Jack
slowly descended the stairs. He sniffed, but smelled nothing except the faint
sweetness of mold and ancient dust. He scanned the surrounding darkness in
hopes of seeing something. Once or twice he thought he saw glimmers of light.
But were they eyes in the dark or just tricks of the mind?
“Peter Pettigrew.”
The words came from everywhere and nowhere, bypassing
Peter’s senses and planting themselves directly into his head. Each syllable
was drawn out, as if the presence were dissecting him, peeling back layers of
skin and muscle, worming into every organ and bone.
“Incendio!”
Light flared from the chandelier above and Peter stifled a
cry of surprise. He opened his eyes cautiously, but dared not look up. He
concentrated on the dusty wooden floor before him. There were bloodstains on
it.
“Good of you to come…” said Lord Voldemort as if Peter has
just dropped by for tea and cucumber sandwiches.
“Please--please--“ said Peter breathlessly, raising his
eyes enough to see the hem of a black robe a mere arm’s length in front of him.
“If it’s about Jack and--and what happened on Hallowe’en, I haven’t told
anyone--I won’t tell…I swear it.”
Peter caught movement at the edge of his vision and
couldn’t help but look up to see long ghostly white fingers moving fluidly,
pointing a wand in his direction. Something dragged his gaze further upward
until he was trapped by a pair of red, slitted eyes like a rat about to be
swallowed by a snake, knowing it will be eaten but not able to do a damned
thing to free itself as long as the unblinking eyes hold it fast. The Dark Lord
lowered his wand. Peter dared to breathe and felt himself lose control; his
trousers and robe suddenly hot and wet as a result of his bladder giving up in
fright.
“You think you were summoned for punishment?” said Lord
Voldemort, the cold voice tinged with amusement, as he moved behind Peter. The
heavy black cloak swished softly across the floor, but otherwise the Dark Lord
was a silent as an anaconda gliding up a tree.
Peter didn’t want to end then and there in a soggy heap of
tears, sweat and piss. Perhaps it was being out of the terrible gaze of
You-Know-Who or perhaps there was wildness inside Peter that had lain hidden,
but something prompted him to whisper fiercely, “I don’t want to--deserve to…
die.”
A cold, shrill laugh erupted from behind him and echoed off
the ceiling and walls. Peter ducked his head and clapped his hands over his
ears. It did no good, though; the sound had wormed its way inside him so that
he would hear that laughter forever after.
“Oh, do get up. Had you been marked for death,” said the
Dark Lord casually, completing his circle and standing once more before the
trembling heap of Pettigrew, “your life would have been over by now. No, Lord
Voldemort merely wanted to meet you after all that Travers has said.”
Pop! The Dark wizard
conjured a chair that winked into existence so suddenly that Peter gave a
start.
“Sit.”
“Said? About me?” stammered Peter squeakily as he scrambled
to his feet, grasping the chair for support. He sat down gingerly; his pants
were still wet, adding to the bubbling cauldron of new sensations that were
overwhelming his brain. “Erm, whatever it was, well…I…”
“--deserve to be commended, naturally,” the Dark Lord said
smoothly.
“Ple--excuse me?” said Peter incredulously.
“Yes,” hissed the other, the eyes leaving Peter’s face for
a moment and traveling upward to stare at something beyond the chandelier
above, beyond the room itself.
Without those fiery red eyes fixed on him, Peter had the
chance to appraise the pale face. The white skin and slit-like nostrils were
more reminiscent of a china-white snake than anything human. The flat planes of
the face seemed sculpted, not the product of some sordid coupling of human
parents but of the deliberate hand of an alien craftsman. At that moment, it seemed
to Peter a majestic face. Later, he would come to see it as a monstrosity, a
cruel joke, but that first time it held him in awe.
The eyes blinked and were upon him again, the black slits
enlarging suddenly and then contracting, drawing Peter into the inky blackness
inside.
“So few wizards have the wisdom to see the immediate danger
to our kind…as you do, Peter Pettigrew.”
The sound of his name uttered by the Dark Lord once again
sent a jolt up Peter’s spine.
“Well, I…” whispered Peter hesitantly, trying to discount
what he’d heard, indeed the evidence from all his senses. “Me?” He swallowed
painfully. “You can’t think that I’ve done…anything, can you?”
“Do you think it strange that Lord Voldemort should want to
reward those who are useful?” Another shrill laugh reverberated in the
cavernous room. “No doubt you have heard all the usual lies from that
Muggle-loving Albus Dumbledore and his misguided followers.” After a snort of
contempt, he continued, “Do not believe what you hear. Lord Voldemort is trying
to save the wizarding world.”
Peter gasped, having realized all of a sudden that he’d
been holding his breath. The sound of that name, the name that was never
spoken, the rightful name of the terrible and awesome presence that loomed over
him, still rang in his ears.
“Does that surprise you? Wizards are in great danger, more
than in centuries past. Can you guess what threatens us?”
The pregnant silence had struck Peter dumb. Curiously, he
found himself longing for the voice to continue.
“Muggles,” came a venomous hiss from above his left ear, so
close that he flinched and ducked his head as if dodging a blow. From behind
him, the Dark Lord continued.
“They are killing us…slowly, so slowly that many foolish
people cannot see. The idiots at the Ministry make rules to ‘protect’ Muggles.
Hah! Mere folly that weakens us all. Why, you would think that wizards were
pitiful, helpless creatures hiding in places like this, afraid to venture out
into the world, afraid to take their rightful places.”
The Dark Lord stopped abruptly and then reappeared in front
of Peter, who did not have the ability to look away from the scarlet eyes as
the black slits opened and closed, like doors to--
“I, Lord Voldemort, am trying to save wizards from slow and
shameful extinction at the hands of Muggles,” raged the Dark wizard. Abruptly,
he looked up toward the chandelier and pointed his wand at some unseen enemy.
“Those misguided, Muggle-loving wizards must be stopped. But Lord Voldemort
cannot do this alone. No. I have gathered together those who will listen, my loyal friends. Of
course, those who do not join us will eventually be crushed.” He waved a hand
dismissively and then fixed his gaze on Peter once more, saying more softly,
“Ah, someone with your talents and… connections could be very…valuable.”
“M-me?” Peter whispered, “You must be mistaken. I’m not
anything--that is, I’d prefer a rather quiet life, you know, away from the--out
of the--”
“There can be no hiding, Pettigrew. You will find that Lord
Voldemort offers protection and rewards to his loyal servants.”
“Rewards?” Peter blurted out. “But, what can I--Wh-what do
you want?”
“Information, merely information that will help our cause. And in return…”
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